Old Soul
by The Extreme Piercing
Summary: More than once, Quelana wondered whether Nemeta was a trick played upon her by the Flames of Chaos, a beguiling, infuriating illusion that would lure her to oblivion. Femslash.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its cast are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Old Soul**

**Chapter 1**

"I brought dinner!"

Quelana emerged from her reverie, and looked up. _That __girl_ was approaching. Nemeta had recently earned herself a place as Quelana's apprentice – her first in over two centuries – and now she was striding across the swamp water towards her. From forty paces away, the girl waved at her mistress, and Quelana noted that she was not alone; she was walking hand-in-hand with one of those peculiar Mushroom Children.

Quelana did not return the wave, nor the greeting; she simply sat and watched as Nemeta and her diminutive companion stomped through the water, closing the distance between them.

"Mistress, this is Fungo," Nemeta said. "Fungo, this is my teacher, Quelana."

"_Fungo?__"_ said Quelana, swirling the name around in her mouth. She didn't like the taste. "The Mushroom Folk do not give one another names."

"I know. I decided that Fungo here deserved a name, considering that we're soon to eat him for our supper."

Poor Fungo comprehended nothing of what was said. He peered distrustfully at Quelana, all the while gripping Nemeta's hand with absolute, unconditional, unyielding, unquestioning trust.

Quelana appraised the boy for a moment, and then returned her gaze to Nemeta. "I dine alone," she stated, simply.

Nemeta groaned with slightly more theatre than Quelana cared for. "I fought my way through a gigantic, convoluted _privy_ to be here, Mistress! And then I went to the trouble of climbing inside a bloody _tree_ to capture dinner for ourselves! The _polite_ thing to do would be to indulge me!"

Quelena sighed deeply. "Such stupid lengths you go to, to test my patience. Very well. We'll dine together. I sincerely hope that the meal does not consist _entirely_ of burnt mushroom. Does it?"

Nemeta unfurled a cloth, revealing a half-loaf of bread – a delicacy, in Lordran. "Alright," said Quelana. "I'm impressed." She had also brought a vessel of wine that she had liberated from the cellars beneath the palace at Anor Londo, and a large hunk of rat meat. The Mistress and her apprentice set to work, fashioning a cooking fire from stones and lengths of metal.

Eventually, young Fungo realized that the nice young witch lady that had lured him from his home with a warm, beguiling smile did _not,_ in fact, have entirely the best intentions towards him. He attempted to escape through the mire, pitter-pattering across the water on his pathetic, stumpy legs. Nemeta laughed and giggled, and then downed the boy with a well-placed projectile.

"It breaks my heart to see you take such sadistic pleasure in playing with your food," Quelana said later, wrapping a chunk of rat meat in bread. "I'm serious! There are so many ways to lose yourself to the flames. This_...hunger_ for bloodshed and carnage – you must take care that it does not consume you!"

"It was just a little Mushroom Person," she replied, shoveling a lump of charred Boy into her mouth. "If I ever express an interest in cannibalism, _then_ you should be concerned."

()()()()()()()()

From an early age, Nemeta's parents ingrained in their daughter the importance of making a good first impression. _Always __look __your __best,_ they taught her. _You'll__ never__ know __when__ an __opportunity __for __social__ advancement__ springs __itself __upon__ you._

Unfortunately, the first time Nemeta descended to the bottom of Blighttown, and began making her way across the water, she did not realize that she was making a very _poor_ first impression upon her soon-to-be teacher.

Hunched in a concealed corner, far from the attentions of passersby, Quelana watched with mounting, horrified fascination as this newcomer, clad in silken robes, strode blithely through the mud, flinging fireballs and arcs of lightning at any creature that happened to block her path.

_I've __seen __some __blithering __fools __pass__ this __way,_ she thought to herself, _but __never__ have__ they __been__ so __eager __to __make __their __stupidity__ so __obvious.__Look __at __this __silly __little __girl! __Is__ she __dressed __for __a __country __fair, __or __a __ball, __perhaps?__ Don't __stay __out __in __the __open, __you__ fool! __Keep __to __the __shadows, __stay __hidden! __No, __you __imbecile, __do __not __confront __the __giants, __you're __about __to__ get __crushed __by __boulders!_

()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta stamped bad-naturedly out of the marsh, and deposited herself gracelessly onto the ground at Quelana's side. Her greeting went thus: "Every time I come to see you, I get devoured by mosquitoes, submerged to my waist in noxious filth, and the visit always culminates in me lifting my skirt to find dozens of leeches clinging to my legs."

She was swaddled head-to-toe in thick robes, but Quelana had long ago mastered the art of communicating through deportment and demeanour, and now her deportment and demeanour communicated that she derived just the _slightest_ morsel of enjoyment from her student's suffering. "Shows you're sincere about your studies, doesn't it, that you'd go to such lengths to see me?"

"Have you ever been to Firelink?" asked Nemeta. "It's not by any means a thriving, teeming centre of culture, but we do have a little bit of a community established, now. We have a pair of magicians, and a priestess, and a healer, and a couple of merchants, also. We even have a great big serpent which gobbles up all of our rubbish! You may find you like it there, if you bothered to visit. Or perhaps you simply prefer living in the basin of a sewer."

"Blighttown has its attractions," said Quelana. "Besides, if I did go above, I'd have to endure your babbling every moment of the day, wouldn't I? At least when you fight your way down here, you've _earned_ the right to pester me."

()()()()()()()()

Several months ago, Nemeta murdered Quelana's sister, Quelaag.

In Quelana's imagination, when Nemeta struck the killing blow, Quelaag was overcome with a feeling of euphoria and release, untold centuries of suffering and misery dissipating and scattering on the wind. All the malice and hatred melted from her face, and as the light fled from her eyes, Quelaag perished at last with a peaceful smile.

One night, Quelana described this scene to her pupil. Nemeta liked this image better than the one that existed in her memory, and decided that this was how she would remember it, also.

()()()()()()()()()

One day, Nemeta looked at Quelana askance, and asked: "Are you as pretty as your sisters?"

"As pretty as Quelaag? Well, given that she's presently being picked apart by maggots, at the moment I imagine I'm rather prettier."

It would have suited Quelana greatly if Nemeta responded with her customary sarcasm and cheek. Instead, she opted for the much more tiresome strategy of sincerity and earnestness. "Your mother must have been a very beautiful woman," she said.

Quelana considered this. "All beautiful things wither and crumble away," she said, at last. "Or they are twisted and warped, and become horrifying."

The swamp buzzed and hummed, and then Nemeta spoke again. "Can I see your face?"

Quelana was silent for a moment, and when she finally spoke, Nemeta knew that she had been trying to think of a way to alter the course of the conversation. "What if I show you my face, and you see that I bear no resemblance to my sisters at all? What if I've only been _claiming_ to be a Daughter of Izalith? Perhaps I'm not Lost Quelana at all." She gave a mock gasp. "I'm an impostor!"

Nemeta stared at her, and then shrugged. "Your face must be truly hideous, then," she said. "I suppose all the humidity here can't be good for the skin."

Quelana inclined her head. "That's it," she said.

()()()()()()()()()

Quelana knew that Nemeta was from Vinheim. She knew that her young student was twenty years old when she had been afflicted with the Darksign. She knew that Nemeta came from a wealthy family, and surmised that her father – a merchant – had probably spoiled her rotten.

Quelana knew that Nemeta's favourite food was cheesecake, and that she would fight ten dragons at once, if she could only have some now. Quelana knew that Nemeta had two brothers, and that she dearly hoped that they had avoided her fate. Quelana knew that Nemeta kept a small ornamental mirror in her robe pocket, and no matter what terrible demons and spirits were arrayed against her, she always made sure that she was presentable.

Nemeta wandered all over Lordran, and never once realized that she was being followed every step of the way by a host of insects. A legion of flies, mosquitoes, wasps, cockroaches, spiders and moths shadowed her everywhere she went, and she never perceived their presence.

One afternoon, Nemeta told Sieglinde: "Your father reminds me of my uncle. It used to infuriate me, how he'd treat me as though I was a helpless girl, but he meant well."

The insects were listening.

Another time, Nemeta and Rhea climbed to the top of Firelink, and watched the sun disappear beneath the battlements. "Oh, what a pretty little doll you have!" the young maiden exclaimed.

"It's quite ragged and worn," Nemeta replied. "I found it in the old asylum." Her face darkened. "I used to have an entire family of dolls, at home. They all had beautiful faces and lovely dresses."

The insects were listening, again.

In Darkroot Forest, Solaire demonstrated to Nemeta the correct method of skinning a rabbit. "Father never allowed me to go on hunts with my brothers," she remarked. "Now I have to hunt every single day." She worked the rabbit's pelt from the meat, watched as she did so by thousands of eyes.

The insects left their quarry, and swarmed down the great gorge that hew Lordran in half. They flew down past the Valley of Drakes, into the bowels of Blighttown, and there they gathered and buzzed around their Mistress, the Daughter of Izalith.

Quelana listened, and hungrily devoured every secret, every detail, every triviality regarding Nemeta that her servants could find.

()()()()()()()()()

"How long has it been since you had a lover?" said Nemeta.

"That's a bit more familiar than I'm comfortable with," answered Quelana. "You _are_ my apprentice, you know. Show some respect."

Nemeta cocked her head. "A long, long time ago, then. I shouldn't be surprised – you're likely covered in boils and eczema. Hence the robes. Serves you right for living in a swamp. Oh, and if you don't want to invite speculation about your romantic endeavours – or the lack thereof – you shouldn't live in a fetid wilderness where most of the population are mutated grotesques."

"You _are_ an insolent one, aren't you?"

"Insolent? You think me disrespectful? It's not as though you cut the most authoritative figure, is it? A word of advice..."

"I did not ask your advice, child."

"...if you wish people to be in awe of you, it's probably best not to wander around barefoot in a pile of rags as though you were a vagrant."

"Hmmm. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me that an empty-headed little chit who traipses around grimy, sodden dungeons in extravagantly-embroidered robes is so _superficial._ But what I fail to understand, my young student, is why you go to such trouble to visit this vagrant, again and again. Is it your intention to learn pyromancy, or simply to shower me with _abuse?__"_

"_Abuse? _Mistress, as the only individual in this entire swamp capable of sarcasm, I imagined you'd be _grateful_ to share the company of a fellow snark."

()()()()()()()()()

More than anything else, Quelana wished to hear Nemeta speak about _her._

_How__ truly __pathetic__ my __life __has __become,_ she thought. _That __girl __is __obsessed__ with __fine __clothes, __and __pretty __baubles, __and__ fleeting __comforts,__ and __I...I __am __obsessed__ with __her __opinion. __I __am the Mother of Pyromancy, __a __Daughter__ of __the __Witch __of __Izalith, __and__ now...I __am__ in__ the __thrall __of __a __fool. __I__ bid__ my__ servants __to__ eavesdrop __upon __her, __and__ I __hope__ and__ hope__ – __no, __I__ pray__ – __that __she__ will think to __mention __me __for __just __a__ few__ sentences._

_Curse my heart for quickening every time I sense her drawing near._

One day, the pyromancer Laurentius happened to catch a glimpse of Nemeta's flame – rather, the flame that Nemeta and Quelana shared together. When it seemed that Nemeta's powers could increase no further, Quelana had decided to meld her own flame with that of her apprentice, and now their souls would forever be entwined.

Laurentius' eyes widened in astonishment; Nemeta's flame blazed with an intensity he had never thought possible. "Why, what spectacular pyromancy," he breathed. "Tell me about it. I've never seen anything like it."

Nemeta shrugged. "I suppose I'm just an innately gifted pyromancer."

Laurentius stared at her in disbelief, and then snorted. "That you are, my friend. That you are."

_I'm__ her __secret,_ thought Quelana, far below in Blighttown. _Does __she __wish __to __keep __me__ all __to __herself?_

()()()()()()()()()

When the fires burned particularly well, Nemeta's eyes would come alive with a wanton, shameless hunger, and one day Quelana realized, with no small amount of horror, that she would do _anything_ to tempt that expression from her. It was a startling, unnerving revelation, indeed: Quelana discovered that she was _desperate_ to impress this young girl, to capture her imagination, to enchant her, to bewitch and enthrall her, and so it was that the Daughter of Izalith began to embark upon ever more ridiculous and awe-inspiring displays of pyromancy.

Above, in the massive pillars that rose through the heart of Blighttown; higher still, in the skeletal ruins of Firelink Shrine; further yet, on the forsaken rooftops of Anor Londo; furthest of all, from the zenith of Seath's Tower, the Undead of Lordran peered down, and saw constellations of flame leaping and dancing, burning and blazing, in the murky depths of the chasm.

Quelana summoned the flames, bending them to her will, forcing them to obey her whims, shaping them in any way she desired...all to entertain an impertinent little child. More than once, Quelana wondered if Nemeta was a trick played upon her by the Flames of Chaos. She would chase this girl's approval, orchestrating more and more spectacular demonstrations of destruction and power, never realizing until too late that she had gone to far, that she had allowed herself to drift too close to the fires, and that oblivion had her in its grasp.

Nemeta sat cross-legged, eyes wide, mouth agape, squealing and laughing and clapping with glee, urging her Mistress on to increasingly absurd feats, and Quelana allowed herself a private smile.

_How__ like __a__ child__ she __could__ be._


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its cast are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Chapter 2**

Nemeta looked upon Gwynevere, and at once fell utterly, hopelessly, irretrievably in love.

For a few moments, she was blinded by the light. As her senses returned, the scene came to her in bits and pieces. First, Nemeta could see great lengths of silk cascading from the ceiling, falling about a reclining figure of immense size. Next, Nemeta realized that this was no monster that stood before her, no demon, no abomination, but something _divine_, something more than human, something sublime, a beautiful thing that had not been corrupted by the putridness and depravity that pervaded this foul realm. For so long had Nemeta been surrounded by ugliness, and ruin, and decay...

A voice came forth, a voice tempered by centuries of wisdom, a voice laden with warmth and nobility and_...understanding._ "Thou hast journey'd far, and overcome much, Chosen Undead," said the goddess. "Come hither, child."

Nemeta stepped forward, then fell to one knee, and bowed her head. She was not an adherent of this deity's religion – she did not even know the goddess' name – but at her core, Nemeta conceded, she had something of the sycophant within her.

The goddess spoke once more: "O, Chosen Undead. I am Gwynevere, Daughter of Lord Gwyn, and Queen of Sunlight. Since the day Father did his Light obscure from the world, I have await'd thee."

Something caught in Nemeta's throat. "You knew I was coming?" she said.

Gwynevere laughed lightly, smiling indulgently at the girl. "A gift, I have for thee."

The Princess motioned to a golden bowl sitting on a cloth between them. Drawing encouragement from the goddess' eyes, Nemeta shifted forward, and took the bowl into her hands.

"To thine worthy hands I bequeath the Lordvessel," said Gwynevere. "Chosen Undead, I beseech of thee: Succeed Lord Gwyn, and inheriteth the Fire of our world. Thou shalt endeth this eternal twilight, and free the Undead of this realm their terrible burden."

"Inherit the fire..." breathed Nemeta. Tears fell unbidden from her eyes, and Gwynevere reached out a massive hand to stroke her cheek.

If one were to ask Nemeta precisely what it was that she so admired about Gwynevere, she would have babbled excitedly about her pretty face, and her perfect skin, and her glowing smile, and her rich voice, and her immaculate teeth, and her beautiful silk robes, and her effortless grace, and the way that she smelled of soap and bath salts. But there was something more important than any of these, something that Nemeta understood on a fundamental sense, but would never be able to articulate in words.

The moment she set eyes upon Gwynevere, Nemeta knew at once that all the suffering that she had endured these past few months had a _meaning_. She had been afflicted with the Darksign. She had been torn from her mother and father. She had been left to rot alone and forgotten in a crumbling prison. She had lost her life over and over, and forced to reside in a desicated corpse. She had been banished to a forsaken land, forced to survive against the deranged, ravenous Hollowed, left wondering if anyone would ever remember her, and spare a thought for her torment.

But she was the Chosen One, now. For Nemeta, Gwynevere brought the most gratifying feeling of _validation._She would not die forgotten. The horrors to which she had been exposed were not for naught. Her anguish would not be in vain. Nemeta had fought her way to the heart of Anor Londo, and there Gwynevere had confirmed her most closely-held belief, the belief that had kept her going through her darkest times.

Nemeta was _special._

Gwynevere, the Princess of Sunlight, gazed fondly upon her Saviour. "Hereafter, I, Gwynevere, shall serveth as thine guardian. If thou so needest, I shalt devote all to thine own safety. May thou be one with the sunlight for evermore."

()()()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta bounded gaily into the church, and landed on her knees at Rhea's side.

"I'm going to be the new Queen of Sunlight!"

Rhea had been deep in prayer before the altar. Her hands remained clasped, and her knees remained firmly fixed to the ground, but her head tilted towards the other girl. "I beg your pardon?" she asked, her voice somewhat groggy.

"I'm going to be the new Queen of Sunlight!"

Nemeta peered at Rhea's face, impatiently waiting for confusion and bewilderment to change to understanding and comprehension, and then happiness and excitement on her behalf. To her consternation, Rhea remained obstinately befuddled. "I'm afraid I do not understand you."

"I'm going to replace Lord Gwyn, Rhea. I'm going to end the Undead curse!"

Rhea grimaced uncomfortably. "I am indeed grateful to have you as my friend, Nemeta, but _how vulgar_ to utter such blasphemies in a place of worship."

"It's not blasphemy, Rhea! I met Gwynevere in Anor Londo. The Princess of Sunlight! She gave me this..."

Nemeta unveiled the Lordvessel; Rhea was unhelpfully unimpressed. "She told me to use this to replace Lord Gwyn. Somehow. I'm not sure how it works. I think Frampt will be able to explain it to me. But I'm going to be the new Queen of Sunlight, Rhea! I'm going to free the Undead!"

The two knelt in silence for a moment, and Rhea wondered if Nemeta would take her leave and allow her to pray in peace. Then, without warning, Nemeta squealed with glee.

"When I'm the Queen of Sunlight, Anor Londo will be _my__ city!_ Oh, Rhea! _I'll __have__ my__ own__ city!__"_

()()()()()()()()()()()

Such clever little ways Blighttown had of reminding Quelana what a faithless, ungrateful coward she was.

Ironically, when Quelana originally came here, the anonymity that the place afforded her convinced her that _yes_,_ she __could __survive__ by __herself;_ that _no, __she __did __not __need __her __mother__ and__ sisters __to __be __happy_. In Blighttown, she no longer needed to be Quelana, the selfish deserter that abandoned her family. In Blighttown, she no longer needed to be Quelana, surrounded by sisters that were so very much more impressive and accomplished than she. In Blighttown, she no longer needed to be Quelana, the constant disappointment to a mother that was cursed to have known her.

In Blighttown, Quelana was just a solitary woman, eking out an existence amid the marsh. The predators that ruled over the waters hunted her relentlessly, and she killed them, one after another, until eventually their disease-addled minds managed to comprehend that the witch in black robes was not to be crossed. She seldom had dealings with the human inhabitants of the place, though she did come to know a few lovers, over the centuries – the inhabitants of Blighttown had not always been so hideous.

Quelana lived in her swamp, happy to be known as nothing other than a formidable, bad-tempered sorceress. And then Izalith was torn asunder by an enormous cataclysm, and Quelaag and Quelaan escaped into her realm.

Throughout all the years that Quelana kept a home in Blighttown, she had never felt a particularly pressing need to help her neighbours. The swamp was the abode of lepers, castoffs and mutants, but their misery had never been sufficient compulsion for her to intervene. When Quelaan – the Witch of Izalith's youngest and most cloyingly eager-to-please daughter – arrived in Blighttown, however, she resolved at once to help the poor and impoverished souls of this wretched hole.

"_She__ drank __their __pus?_" cried Nemeta, appalled.

"The correct term for it is _sympathetic __magic_," replied Quelana. "She took their suffering upon herself. The symbolic act of drinking their tainted blood was so_...vivid,_ that it was only natural that their actual pain and torment was transferred to her."

Now, everywhere Quelana went, she heard talk of the Fair Lady that brought salvation to Blighttown – however fleeting and meaningless such salvation was.

"The Fair Lady is the most precious blessing we poor folk have ever had!" said the residents of Blighttown, not knowing that Quelana was in the shadows, listening to them.

"The Fair Lady granted us an audience!" said the residents of Blighttown, unaware that Quelana was eavesdropping. "So beautiful, and so kind-hearted, though the disease causes her such distress!"

"We must not let despair overcome us!" said the residents of Blighttown, oblivious to the fact that Quelana was near, seething with impotent rage and self-loathing. "The Fair Lady has sacrificed so much for us. We must be strong for her sake!"

Fair Lady this, Fair Lady that. Mother's Favourite Daughter simply couldn't allow Mother's Most Shameful Failure to forget how perfect was the former, and how crushingly underwhelming was the latter. Quelana wondered if there was some way to make the mosquitoes hum louder and louder, never tiring, so she could drown out the din of praise. In this swamp, platitudes were almost as pervasive as poisonous fumes.

Not even Quelaag was exempt. The locals had a far more ambivalent view of her, though Quelana bitterly noted that they were _determined_ to acknowledge her positive qualities.

"Well, Lady Quelaag has a quick temper, indeed. She doesn't suffer fools at all. Oh, but she loves her sister so! Devotes all of her strength to protecting and comforting her! The Fair Lady is blessed indeed to have such a wonderful sister!"

_Yes,_ thought Quelana, her eyes narrowing. _Such__ a __wonderful, __dutiful __sister. __Lucky__ indeed__ for __Fair __Lady__ that __Quelaag__ isn't__ as __shiftless __and__ cold-hearted __as __their __miserable __sister __Quelana, __isn't __it!_

Eventually, Quelaag fell to Nemeta's sorcery. Quelana could not know for sure, but she was quite certain that Quelaan was still alive. She knew for a fact that Quelaan lived in a secret chamber, where she was tended to by Eingyi, her retainer. The chamber could only be reached by uncovering a carefully concealed passage.

"Nemeta never mentioned anything about finding Quelaan," Quelana said to the flies buzzing about her. "I suppose it's only natural that such a foolish girl would fail to discover a secret passage. She was probably too occupied with powdering her nose to notice a hidden switch."

Quelana ventured through the swamp, and stood opposite the colossal, silken mound where Quelaan resided. Quelaag had lived there, also, until Nemeta had slain her. Quelana peered across the water, and found the opening which led into the Fair Lady's domain.

Perhaps Quelaan was alive. Perhaps she was dead. Perhaps Eingyl was able to care for her in Quelaag's absence. Perhaps Eingyi had killed her himself, as an act of mercy. Perhaps Nemeta had discovered and killed her after all, but didn't want to mention anything to Quelana on account of the fact that she was crippled and helpless.

Perhaps Eingyi himself was dead, and Quelaan was alone in the dark, weak and abandoned.

So many possibilities. All Quelana had to do was walk across a hundred paces of water, and she would be at the periphery of her sisters' domain. Once inside, she need only make her way through a few caves and chambers. She need only turn a switch, and then enter the resultant passage, and she would finally know the fate of her most innocent, most warm-hearted sister. She needed only find the courage for the first few steps.

Quelana turned away, and vanished back into the marsh. She wondered if the insects had brought any new news of Nemeta.

()()()()()()()()()()()

"When I'm the Queen of Sunlight," said Nemeta, "you will be my Royal Blacksmith. You'll forge the weapons for all of my most important knights, and your work will be renowned throughout the kingdoms."

Andrei laughed his infectious, grit-flecked laugh. "Should I be surprised that you've already planned out this dominion o' yourn in detail?"

"Rhea of Thorolund will be my archbishop!" she said, brightly. "And Laurentius will be my Master of Ceremonies. He'll be responsible for firework displays. And I will found a new order of knights with onion-shaped helmets, in honour of Sir Siegmeyer!"

"Well, a fine queen you'll make, I've no doubt. If you want my view, though, it does seem an awful lot to be taking on." Taking one last blow with his hammer, he rested a forearm on one knee, and raised one abundantly bushy eyebrow. "How certain are you you'd _want_ to be queen?"

Nemeta shrugged. "The curse of the Darksign has to be broken. The Undead need me to release them."

"You don't owe the Undead anything. Not me, not anyone. Now, don't misunderstand. No one is saying we live charmed lives. Hell, when a customer doesn't come this way for a few weeks, I find it's safest to just assume they went Hollow, poor bloody souls the lot of 'em. But it's not your doing that we're cursed."

"Gwynevere has been waiting in her fortress up above for _centuries,__"_ replied Nemeta. "Just think: if, merely a century ago, someone had come along and taken Gwyn's place – as I intend to do – you'd be in Astora now, and I'd still have my mother and father."

()()()()()()()()()()()

Quelana heard the squealch of feet upon mud, and sighed. Something was stalking her across the marsh, attempting to approach her from behind, though not doing a particularly good job of concealing its presence. She allowed her would-be assailant to draw near, close enough to believe that it had her within its grasp, and at the last moment whirled around, a mass of glowing lava forming in her palm.

"You foolish thing!" she hissed. "I could have burnt you to ash."

Nemeta pouted, and said: "I thought that if I could sneak up on you, I could pull down your cowl and get a look at your diseased, pustule-ridden face."

"You'd have gotten more than that." She appraised the girl a moment. "Hmmm. I see you've found a halfway-practical set of clothes, at last."

Nemeta was attired now much like a witch, the type of witch that children dress up as during autumn festivals, all black with a pointed, wide-brimmed hat. Quelana was relieved to note that her student was finally wearing a reliable pair of boots, and robes thick enough to protect her from the cold – though she had an unpleasant feeling that Nemeta favoured the outfit rather for the stylish leather and velvet, and the way it flattered her figure.

Quelana settled down onto the ground. "Ready for more lessons?" she said.

"Mmm. I'm not sure. I have some news for you, and it may not put you in the best mood."

"You intend to slay my mother."

Nemeta's eyes grew wide. "Who...you know about the Lordvessel? How?"

"I have my ways of keeping informed." As she spoke, Quelana traced patterns in the dust with an idle finger. "You have been tasked with filling the Lordvessel with the souls of four Lords. Nito, the Gravelord. Seath, the Duke of Anor Londo. The Kings of New Londo. And the Witch of Izalith. My mother."

She glanced up. Nemeta was desperately, frantically trying to think of something to say.

"Don't let it bother you. Not on my account. You've enough to trouble you, without having to worry about the feelings of some old coward."

Nemeta swallowed deeply. "I won't be going off into Izalith for a while, anyway. The blacksmith up above is forging a special weapon for me – a blessed sword which destroys revenants – and when it's ready, I'm going down into the catacombs to look for the Gravelord. And I'm thinking of going after Seath, after that. The Duke's Archives look really magnificent. I'm actually hoping that if I kill the Duke, I can move camp there. It would be a lot more comfortable than Firelink. It will be nice to live in a place with carpets again..."

Quelana nodded. "Very well. You can't avoid my mother forever, though."

Nemeta frowned. "I'm not avoiding her." A moment's pause, and then: "Won't you miss her, when she's gone?"

Quelana shrugged. "My mother and sisters have been gone for a long, long time. A thousand years, I had, Nemeta. I lived in this swamp for a thousand years, and not once did I find the strength or the courage to kill my mother. To release her from her torment. She's spent a millennium trapped in that hideous, warped form, all because her daughter couldn't find it within herself to free her."

Quelana glanced again at her pupil, and was surprised to see that the girl appeared entirely exhausted. With astonishment, Quelana realized that the actual act of _caring __for __another__ person's __feelings_ was so unfamiliar to this young, spoiled, sheltered girl, that it literally sapped away all of her strength. Now completely fatigued, Nemeta had had enough, and reflexively switched the conversation back to herself.

"Poor Salaman would be _so__ distressed_ to learn that he's soon to be surpassed as your most famous student."

"You already surpassed him as my most bungling, some time ago," said Quelana.

"When I'm the Queen of Sunlight," said Nemeta, "I'm going to have my family brought here, to Lordran. They all think I'm a rotting corpse, by now. Just imagine their expressions when they find out I'm a _goddess!_ I'll accommodate them all in a castle, and I'll put pictures of myself in all the rooms. Oh, but even when I'm queen, you'll still be too stubborn to leave this swamp, won't you? I could give you your own school, if you wanted, and it would be the most prestigious school in the world, but you'll stay here, won't you, just to spite me."

Nemeta chattered on, and Quelana faced her and gave the girl what she craved and desired more than anything else, what she could not find anywhere else in Lordran: her full, unconditional attention.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Chapter 3**

Nemeta materialized in the hall, and Lautrec smiled his hungry, predatory smile.

"You must surely be the most restless Undead in all of Lordran," he drawled. "Were you not charged by divine authority with lifting the curse? Do you really have time to be chasing after inconsequential rapscallions such as myself?"

Nemeta strode across the floor towards him, and Lautrec snorted at her primness, her properness, her excruciating _righteousness._ "You murdered the Fire Keeper," she said. "Do you think the world so devoid of good folk, that thieves and killers such as yourself can roam with impunity?"

Lautrec let loose with that filthy, lascivious laugh, and Nemeta involuntarily blanched; not long ago, that very same laugh could reduce her to appalled, scandalized giggling. "_Good __folk?_" he roared. "Oh, how precious. May I ask, if justice is so important to you, could you not have dispatched some of your _good,__ virtuous_ friends to pursue me instead, while you got on with the presumably more important task of linking the flames? The pyromancer, perhaps? Or that insufferable sun worshipper?"

Lautrec put a thoughtful finger to his chin. "Oh, but you don't really care for _justice_, do you? I watched you, you know, each time you returned to Firelink from your adventures. I remember how you would rummage about for praise and acclaim. You can tell when a woman is searching for compliments. _Glory_ is what you seek, is it not?"

"The Fire Keeper outwitted you." Nemeta reached into her robes, and brought forth a sphere of obsidian glass. "She must have known that you intended to kill her. She must have had the measure of you before the rest of us did. She left something hidden on her body, something for me to find. I used this orb to track you. She made sure that her murder would be avenged."

Lautrec laughed once more. "No, my adorable, clueless little lamb," he said. "She sealed your fate."

Two glowing figures took form at either side of Lautrec, and readied themselves for battle. _A __mage, __and__ a __hefting __great__ fellow__ with __a __spear,_ thought Nemeta. _The __scoundrel __is __right; __I __should__ have__ sent__ the__ others._

Darting to the side, Nemeta vanished behind a pillar just as the air became thick with blazing spears of magic. "Fear not, my little innocent!" she could hear him shouting. "I'll let you taste a few moments of depravity before your life ends!"

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

For a thousand years, Quelana wandered the swamps of Lordran, consumed with guilt and horror at the fate of her mother and sisters, warped and twisted into horrible abominations in the conflaguration that destroyed Izalith. The trouble with this was that, when you live so long dwelling on regret and remorse, you begin to perceive everything around you in terms of the embarrassment and humiliation that it might potentially cause you in the future.

Quelana could have left the swamp whenever she wanted. A thousand years ago, she could have gone to live in the civilization of Oolacile, or Vinheim, and made a new life for herself. Much later, she could have gone to live in Astora, or Thorolund, or Carim, and made a home there. But why bother? It would always end the same way. It would always end in grief and madness, and when she inevitably returned to her true home – Lordran – she would have nothing to show for her troubles but a fresh set of tainted memories to torment and torture her.

Quelana wanted to kiss Nemeta. Such a simple action, and yet it would answer so many questions, banish so many uncertainties. Such an easy thing to do. Nemeta was naturally a grasping, touching, familiar creature, with little concept of propriety, so fond of snatching at Quelana's hands, or looping her arms around her neck or waist. It would be _so __easy_ for Quelana to wait until her student was close, and then simply lean forward and capture her mouth with her own.

Perhaps Nemeta would smile, and politely explain that, though she valued Quelana as a teacher, mentor, and even a friend, she could not return her affections.

Perhaps Nemeta would ignore it, and babble and prattle as though nothing had happened.

Or perhaps Nemeta would laugh at her. She would stare at her in amazement, and then begin laughing, and Quelana would finally realize – would finally, _truly_ understand – what a wretched, pathetic, lonely old crone she was.

Nemeta would vanish and never come back, and Quelana would remain in Blighttown. She would spend another thousand years wandering this cursed swamp, and alongside the memories of her mother and sisters misshapen by the flames, she would have a new memory to fester within her: the memory of a beautiful, vibrant young girl, laughing mockingly at the deluded old fool that believed she _deserved_ her.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

When Nemeta returned to Firelink, she could not tell at once that something was wrong. The place was a crumbling, forsaken shambles to begin with, and so Nemeta thought nothing of the patches of singed grass, or the burn marks on stone, but went immediately to the Fire Keeper's cell.

Nemeta did not know how to resurrect a dead woman. Nor, however, did she understand how she was able to restore her own Hollowed flesh from the flames; nor how to consume souls to make herself stronger; not how to sacrifice human essence to the flames to kindle them. And yet, she did all these things. In Lordran, Nemeta had learned, understanding and comprehension weren't always particularly important. _Intuition_ was what mattered, and now her intuition was telling her that she could bring this murdered girl back to life.

Nemeta returned the Fire Keeper's soul to its rotting flesh. Lights danced around the corpse's form, and then the entire body was shrouded in a peculiar flame. When the fire eventually abated, the Fire Keeper pushed herself groggily to her knees, and looked about, blinking.

"Hello!" said Nemeta, smiling brightly. "Don't be afraid! You're safe now. Lautrec is dead. I tracked him down to Anor Londo. I killed him, and took your soul back, and, well, here you are!"

Part of Nemeta – the mature part, the part of her that had become steadily stronger ever since she was imprisoned in the Undead Asylum – thought: _She's__ confused. __She's__ frightened.__ Can __she __hear __me?__ Can __she __understand__ me? __Might __she __be__ in __pain? __Does __she __clearly __remember__ what__ took __place __before? __What__ would__ put __her __at __ease? __Getting __her __out__ of__ that __cell __would__ be __a __good __start, __though __Frampt __told __me __she's __free __to __leave __whenever __she __wishes. __Does__ she__ have__ a __good__ friend __in __Lordran, __someone__ who __might __comfort __her?__ Perhaps __she __just __needs__ rest..._

The other part of Nemeta – the part that had been nurtured for years of pampering and spoiling by an overprotective father and mother, the part that refused to die – thought: _Why__ isn't __she__ thanking __me?_

The Fire Keeper seemed especially befuddled by something in her mouth, and after a moment Nemeta realized that the girl's tongue had been restored, and she could now speak – an ability with which she was evidently unpracticed.

"Th-thank you," she said, at last, and if the spoiled child within Nemeta had been any stronger, she would have burst out laughing at the inexpert pronunciation. Luckily, the adult Nemeta wrestled the child into submission.

"You can speak! What's your name?"

"I...I am Anastacia, of Ast – Astora."

"Hmmm, Astora...I'm from Vinheim. Anastacia, have the rest of your wounds healed? Do you think you can leave the cell? It would give the others such a surprise to see you walking about!"

Unexpectedly, Anastacia grimaced bitterly, her eyes sinking to the ground. "Forgive me," she said, her voice trembling. "My...my tongue is impure. I wish d-dearly not to offend. Please, do not...I wish not to speak."

Anastacia bowed her head in dejection. "Oh," said Nemeta.

A few moments passed in silence, Anastacia hunched unmoving in the shadows. Then, Nemeta gasped with glee, and the Fire Keeper looked up, astonished.

"With your tongue restored, you can _taste_ again! Solaire and Andrei built a makeshift oven on the other side of the shrine! Ooh! Do you like _lemon__ cakes?_"

()()()()()()()()()()()

When Nemeta returned to the main part of the ruins, Laurentius came jogging up to her. "The bonfire's come back to life!" he said.

"I know," said Nemeta, self-satisfied. "I killed Lautrec, and returned the Fire Keeper's soul to her. She's down in her cell. Her name's Anastacia."

Laurentius did not gaze admiringly at her, or clap her on the back, or utter some congratulatory platitude, or otherwise praise her. He just stared at her, uncomprehending, and the spoiled child kicked and pounded on the floor, screaming: _No __one __in __Lordran __appreciates __me!_

"I resurrected the Fire Keeper," said Nemeta, again; slowly, this time, so that the slow-witted pyromancer could understand. "I found Lautrec, and took her soul back."

"Oh yeah, yeah!" said Laurentius, finally absorbing the information. "Good, good. Now, it's just...we had a bit of excitement ourselves, while you were gone. There was a bit of a brouhaha here at the ruins."

"What happened?" said Nemeta.

"Those dancing sorcerers attacked us. Yeah. Weird blokes. They just came and started firing spells at us. It was pretty hairy, actually. There were about a dozen of them. I've never seen so many of them."

The dancing sorcerers...the bizarre, occult magicians that seemed out-of-place even in such a twisted, chaotic hellhole as this. Nemeta remembered them, remembered their cruel tridents and their strange, six-eyed helms.

"Was anyone hurt?" she asked.

"Well, that magician fellow – what's his name, Griggs – he had a bit of an injury, but he'll be alright. We saw 'em off, eventually. I had my pyromancy, and we had two other magicians, so...oh, and Frampt ate one of them, also..."

An indistinct fear began to gnaw at the periphery of Nemeta's awareness. "Rhea," she said. "Is Rhea all right?"

Laurentius' eyes flicked to the sky. "Rhea..." he said. "Rhea..."

Nemeta sighed. "The girl dressed all in white! She follows the Way of the White! She stays in the church, away from the rest of us. Is she safe?"

"Oh, yeah, Rhea! Yeah, we should have checked her, actually..."

Nemeta groaned deeply. It was seemingly too much to ask people to look after one another; apparently the Undead came to Lordran to wallow in their obsessions, and ignore everything else. "I have to make sure she's safe," Nemeta said, turning away.

"I have been to the church."

Ingward, the healer of New Londo, emerged through an archway. "The maiden Rhea is nowhere to be found."

()()()()()()()()()()()

_The__ trouble __with __Nemeta,_ Quelana thought, _is __that __she__ wants __a__ mother._

_Give the little rascal her due. She is strong, and resilient, and brave, and none of her foolishness or impudence can negate that. But even the hardships of this realm could not banish the little child within her; not entirely. She craves encouragement. She craves approval. She craves comfort, and attention, and affirmation._

_Is that the significance that I hold for her? Am I a mother, a replacement for the one she left far, far away, in Thorolund? Does she desire nothing more from me than guidance, and wisdom, and some fleeting, illusory sense of belonging?_

()()()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta, Laurentius, Griggs, Ingward, Solaire and Sieglinde gathered about the bonfire. Big Hat Logan sat off to the side, lest his lessers got the impression that they were somehow his equal.

"First, we need to find Rhea," said Nemeta. "And then we need to find a new camp. Firelink is too dangerous."

"Those sorcerers made off with the most vulnerable amongst us," said Solaire. "I fear that, if they decide to return, their designs will be on young Anastacia..."

"We could set a trap..." ventured Laurentius.

"And young Rhea remains in their clutches while we lie in wait?" replied Ingward.

"We need to find their lair," said Griggs. "It may be helpful to first set out a list of places where we have encountered them..."

"They show up _everywhere_," said Sieglinde, her voice bouncing around within the walls of her massive helmet.

"After months in this forsaken land, I thought I knew Lordran so well." said Solaire, despairing. "Where could they _be_?"

The answer came from above. From the branches high over their heads, a voice, breathless and urgent. "Snuggly knows! Snuggly knows! Dancing men! Many eyes, looking, looking! Snuggly saw! Snuggly saw!"

Off in the corner, Logan moaned. "Splendid," he said, his face stubbornly concealed by the massive brim of his hat. "The raven knows, and now expects to be bribed with another worthless trinket."

Nemeta called up to the giant raven. "Did you see the sorcerers leaving Firelink, Snuggly? Did they have Rhea with them?"

The bird gave a shrill squawk. "White lady! Shy lady! _Bawk_! They, took shy lady. Crying! Crying!"

"Oh, and you didn't think to rescue her?" Logan, again.

"Master Logan, a bird is especially vulnerable against magic," said Griggs. "Especially a bird of that size. They would have shot her out of the sky."

"Did you see where they took her?" said Nemeta.

"_Bawk_! Books and crystals! Books and crystals! Snuggly saw!"

"The Archives..." said several in unison.

Logan gave a spirited chortle. "Well, it seems the raven has its uses, after all. And it _appears_ that Seath the Scaleless, the Duke of Anor Londo, has made the way forward obvious. To free young Rhea of Thorolund, we must venture to the Regal Archives, and slay her captor – claiming his domain for our own. The Archives are a far more fitting camp than this derelict ruin. They can be easily defended, and we will of course have ownership of Seath's magnificent collection of books..."

"What could Seath the Scaleless want with an innocent girl like Rhea?" said Sieglinde.

"We could _ask_ him, I suppose," said Laurentius.

"I would have fought Seath, eventually," said Nemeta. "We may as well confront him now, before he he can hurt anyone else."

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Sometimes, Quelana is convinced that Nemeta is trying to seduce her.

Nemeta loves to seize hold of her Mistress' fingers, for no other reason than to have them in her grasp. Nemeta loves to wordlessly challenge her teacher to hold her student's gaze. Nemeta loves to talk about husbands that she may have in the future, all the while watching her tutor in a sideways manner to observe her reaction.

_Why is she doing this, other than to entice me? Well, it should be obvious. The girl is ravenous for attention. Is this a game to her?_

Once, Nemeta asked to wash Quelana's feet with a bottle of oil that she bought from a merchant from Zena. "Why _ever_ would you wish to do that?"

"It's a Vinheim tradition," replied Nemeta, and from the glint in her eyes Quelana was mostly certain that she was lying, though she was not nearly well-traveled enough to be sure. "It shows respect for your elders."

Nemeta wanders all over Lordran, battling ancient demons, unraveling age-old secrets, and uncovering domains that have gone untouched by the sun for aeons. Meanwhile, Quelana abides far below in her swamp, agonizing over unclear intentions, and half-remembered conversations, and stolen glances that might or might not have taken place; in Blighttown, the light is rather poor.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Kingseeker Frampt watched as Nemeta entered his chamber. His sonorous voice reverberated throughout Firelink: "How fares your quest, Chosen Undead?"

"Well, you'll be pleased to know that I'll soon be adding Seath's soul to the Lordvessel...actually, I have to ask you a favour. It's very important..."

"Ask, then."

"When Seath is dead, we'll be using the Archive as our new camp." _Jolly __occupation,_ Solaire called it. "Now, I _could_ ask Anastacia to leave her flame, and come with us...but I know there's no point."

"Indeed," said Frampt. "The Fire Keeper has suffered much during her life, and it is her duty to the flame that has sustained her."

_And__ entrapped__ her._ "I would like to be sure that you will protect her, when we're gone."

Frampt straightened himself, an act that Nemeta found both dignified and hilarious at the same time. "Allow no concern for your friend to distract you from your destiny," he intoned. "I, Frampt, will allow no harm to be inflicted upon the Fire Keeper."

_You __didn't __stop__ Lautrec __from__ killing __her,_ thought Nemeta. _Were __you__ dozing, __then,__ too?_

But there was nothing else she could do. "Thank you," she said, and then she left and rejoined the rest, as they planned their assault on the Duke's Archives.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Chapter 4**

_The first time the Warrior set eyes upon Nemeta, he burst out laughing. She might have felt offended, if not for the fact that his laughter seemed so...**unenthusiastic.**_

_"Please, sir," she said. She knew that there was a plaintive whine to her voice, as though she was on the verge of bursting into tears, but by now all the pride had been well beaten out of her, and she was far too miserable to attempt to disguise it. "Please, sir," she said again, but what could she ask of him? Her family back? Her life restored? Please, sir, will you wake me from this nightmare?_

_"I suppose sometimes even this accursed place has a sense of humour," he said. "Oh! What a pretty dress you're wearing! And your face! Your skin! You're so beautiful and innocent! Just arrived in Lordran, hmmm? The Hollows are going to have their fun with you..."_

_She wrung her wrists, and shivered in the cold. "S-sir," she said. "I am Nemeta of Vinheim. My f-father is a wealthy and influential merchant..."_

_He laughed again, that laugh that somehow contained a reproachful, resentful quality. "Haven't you realized, by now? All your wealth is no use to you now. You're trapped here. We all are. So you might as well do what most of us do."_

_"What do people do here, sir?"_

_"We do what I'm doing now. We find ourselves a peaceful corner, curl up into a ball, and **feel**** sorry ****for ****ourselves**. Hah hah hah hah!"_

()()()()()()()()()()()

Probably for the best that Ingward and Solaire discovered Rhea.

When they first arrived at the entrance to the Regal Archives, the Undead had been confronted by a pair of enormous boars, clad head-to-cloven-foot in heavy armour, their sharpened tusks barbed with cruel, rusted hooks. After defeating these demons, the companions decided to divide into groups, and clear the Archives corridor by corridor, chamber by chamber.

Solaire and Ingward fought their way into a massive cellar, a great cylindrical pit lined with prison cells. It was within one of these cells that they at last found Rhea. She lunged at the sight of them, pressing against the iron bars that held her captive, swiping hungrily at the air, grasping at the nourishing lifeforce that hovered before her, just out of reach.

"The child has gone Hollow," said Ingward.

"Poor thing," said Solaire.

If it had been Griggs that discovered her, he probably would have been so eager to avoid breaking Nemeta's heart, that he would have convinced himself he could _save_ Rhea. He would have kept her imprisoned in that cell, and there she would have festered as Logan half-heartedly searched for a way to restore her humanity. Nemeta would have seen her friend, ravenous and deranged, her flesh rotting, her eyes empty of all warmth and feeling.

If it had been Logan that discovered her, he would have found some way to make the situation even more horrifying and embarrassing than it already was. Perhaps Nemeta and the rest would have wandered into the prison to find Big Hat in the middle of dissecting Rhea's corpse, performing experiments on her remains. "Well, she was lost, anyway," he might have said, nonchalantly depositing her entrails in a bucket.

Sieglinde had already slain her father. No sense in forcing her to put another lost Hollow out of its misery.

Fortunate indeed that Solaire and Ingward found Rhea instead. "This is a cruel world," said Solaire, keeping Rhea's maddened glare for just a moment. "I only wish your final moments might have been a little less lonely."

Solaire drew his sword, and Ingward stepped back. The door to Rhea's cell was flung open, and she was cut down.

()()()()()()()()()()()

_Emerging from the lift, Nemeta pranced through the ruins of Firelink, and presented herself before the Warrior. He tried to ignore her, at first, but it soon became clear that she was potentially willing to stand in front of him forever. "What is it now?" he said, seeing no other option but to acknowledge her._

_"I hope I didn't disturb you, earlier."_

_"You're disturbing me **now**."_

_"**Of ****course** I'm disturbing you now. That's intentional. I said, I hope I didn't disturb you **earlier**."_

_Grudgingly, he tried to cast his mind back to earlier. What happened...oh! "It was you?" he asked. "You rang the bell, above in the Parish?"_

_She smirked in triumph._

_"You never give up, do you? I don't know how you do it."_

_"It is a challenge," she conceded, nodding. "But I never realized I had so much strength and fortitude within me..."_

_"I preferred you when you were a tattered, sniveling little lass," he said. "Hah hah hah hah! My, I remember the day you arrived here as if it was yesterday. You cried for your father, do you remember that?"_

_Nemeta's superior expression did not falter. "The difference between us, sir, is that if both our fathers saw us at this exact moment, my father would be **proud** of me..."_

_"Oh, I can't decide what's worse. Becoming Undead, or **you**."_

_The Warrior was spared another of Nemeta's ripostes by a commotion to the side. The portly cleric, Petrus of Thorolund, blundered into view. "Oh, heavens, is nowhere in this land safe?"_

_"What's wrong?" said Nemeta._

_His words were blurted out between hurried breaths. "She has been butchered..."_

_"Rhea is **dead**?"_

_"No, not the Lady Rhea. The Fire Keeper! She has been murdered in her cell!"_

()()()()()()()()()()()

As she gazed upon Rhea's remains, Nemeta found herself thinking of her father and brothers.

Such a _sheltered_ life she had lived. For twenty-two years, they had kept her safe. For twenty-two years, her father and brothers had kept her innocent. For twenty-two years, her father and brothers had kept at bay all the charlatans, all the tricksters, all the deceivers that might have wished to do her harm. _Gods_, she had never imagined that the world was so full of liars, degenerates, deviants, sadists.

Nemeta's thoughts turned to Lautrec of Carim. So charming. So charismatic. How easily he made her laugh. How skillfully he wormed his way into her estimations. Oh, she _knew_ that he was a scoundrel. She _knew_ that he was a cur, caring only for himself and his own advancement. And yet, somehow, she had deluded herself that he had a core of nobility to him, an essence of inner decency. Somehow, he had made her believe that, beneath all the crudeness, beneath all the duplicity, he had a heart as golden as the armour he wore.

And then he waited until Anastacia was alone and helpless at Firelink, and slid his blade into her chest.

Nemeta looked at Rhea again. Mindful of his companions' feelings, Ingward had concealed her dessicated face beneath a shroud. Laid out now in her white robes, Rhea was as beautiful as she could be, considering the environs.

Seath the Scaleless. When they first arrived in Anor Londo, the Undead had encountered the Lady of the Darkling, who guarded her bonfire in solitude in that vast, forsaken city. "The Duke?" she asked, her voice issuing forth from the armour that enveloped her. "In legend, he turned against the ancient dragons. He became Lord Gwyn's confidante, was granted dukedom, and was allowed to pursue his research."

"What sort of research?" asked Logan.

"Scales of immortality," she replied, airily. "The one thing that he did not have. But his very research drove him mad. The archives became a dungeon, a place for sinister experiments."

Sieglinde gasped in horror. "_Experiments_? Oh, poor Rhea! We can't waste any more time! We must be on our way!"

"Few dare even approach the duke's forbidden Archives," said the Fire Keeper. She paused a moment, and cast her gaze around the assembled party. "But I suspect you have little interest in any warnings I may offer."

Nemeta gazed upon Rhea's lifeless form, and wondered: _Is __this __the__ world__ that__ my __father__ and __brothers __kept __hidden__ from __me?_ Lautrec of Carim murdered Anastacia, so that he could steal her innocent soul. Seath the Scaleless conducted his experiments upon Rhea, so that he might discover the secret to immortality. Rhea spent her final moments in this life in terror, and agony, so that Seath could prolong his wretched, dishonest life.

How could I be so blind? How could I be so ignorant to the fact that the world is so full of such evil men?

Nemeta stood with her fists clenched at her sides. "When I am the Queen of Sunlight," she said, not turning her gaze from Rhea, "this will happen no more."

Sieglinde was standing at her side, lost in her own reverie. "What?" she said.

"I don't know precisely how," she went on, "but I'm going to make this world more _honest_. Women like Rhea will no longer fear the designs of depraved ghouls such as Seath, or Lautrec. When I link the Flame, dishonest men will prey on the weak no more."

()()()()()()()()()()()

_The Warrior's nostrils were filled with a revolting stench, and his hard-earned lunch almost found itself onto the stones at his feet. "What in the world is that **smell**?" he wondered aloud, and then, somewhere off in the ruins of the shrine, came the thundering sound of a cavernous, mucus-filled throat clearing itself._

_The Warrior sat in stunned silence for a moment, the fetid stink of rotting flesh wafting about him. Then, for a second time, a large volume of rotten sputum was noisily expelled, and the Warrior realized that something very large and very loud was very politely trying to announce its presence._

_A voice reverberated around the shrine. "Greetings! Am I...alone? Hmmm..."_

_The Warrior rose from his seat, and headed towards the source of the noise. For some reason, he felt at that moment as though he were wading through the thick, tangible horror of a nightmare. The Warrior passed through an archway, and was confronted by the monstrosity that had now taken residence in the shrine's pool._

_"Greetings," declared the serpent. "I am Kingseeker Frampt, close friend of the Great Lord Gwyn. Chosen Undead, who has rung the Bell of Awakening, I have been tasked with enlightening you as to your destiny."_

_The Warrior bowed his head. "The Bell of Awakening...it can't be...that proud little doll...that snooty little princess...**she**** has ****rung**** the ****second**** bell**!"_

_The serpent continued: "Chosen Undead, your fate is to succeed the Great Lord Gwyn. So that you may link the Fire, cast away the Dark, and undo the curse of the Undead. You must prove yourself worthy of being the Great Lord's successor..."_

_"...that conceited little monster...that dainty little brat..."_

_"...to this end, you must travel to the lost city of Anor Londo, and there petition the Princess of Sunlight, and receive from her the Lordvessel..."_

_"She won't rest until I'm **Hollow**! I, I mind my own business! I sit in my little corner, and I don't bother a soul! But she, she must be loved by everyone! Oh, she won't rest until every Undead in Lordran admires her, will she? And she will never, ever leave me alone, will she! She will always come skipping along to torment me, to let me know what a wonderful, impressive little rabbit she is!"_

_At last, Frampt realized that the human before him was not listening to his speech, but rather simmering in an inferno of his own roiling hatred. "Ah...forgive me," he rumbled. "Are you, in fact, the Chosen Undead?"_

_The Warrior tore himself from his monologue, and glared at the Kingseeker. He did not say a word, and so Frampt asked: "Did you ring the Bell of Awakening?"_

_There was a scuffling from behind, and Petrus lurched into view. "Is something the mat–**oh**!"_

_"Are **you** the Chosen Undead?" asked an increasingly dubious Frampt. The newcomer was a little rotund to be succeeding Gwyn. Neither of these men would make very impressive Lords of Sunlight, come to think of it..._

()()()()()()()()()()()

It didn't surprise anyone, of course, when they found that Logan had abandoned his duty of exploring the Archives. They discovered him, predictably enough, crouched on the floor in a small library, books strewn about him, immersed in Seath's research. "This place is truly magnificent," he enthused. "More than expected, even. A great pool of knowledge, the fruits of superior wisdom and an unquenchable desire for truth. Some would say Seath had an unsound fixation …bu this work is a beautiful, invaluable progress demands sacrifice."

"Yeah," said Laurentius. "And apparently, the sacrifice involves us running around this cursed bloody archive while you're all cozy in your little library."

"Let's not waste any of our strength arguing with him," pleaded Griggs. "We should focus on winning the Archives."

However, in the end, Logan's decision to indulge in research proved bountiful. "The secret of Seath's immortality: the Primordial Crystal, a sacred treasure pillaged by Seath when he turned upon the ancient dragons," he told them. "Only by destroying the Primordial Crystal can you so much as scratch Seath's hide."

Nemeta fought her way into the crystal forest that bordered the Archives. Massive, hulking golems rose to confront her, and she blasted them into a thousand glowing shards each. She crossed invisible bridges, inching her way across vast chasms.

On some level, Nemeta understood that the growth of this forest was fueled by untold thousands of women sacrificed to Seath's work. His victims languished in that dank, lightless prison, their life essence torn slowly, agonizingly, from their unwilling bodies, their screams and wailing echoing throughout the dungeon – and all the while, Seath was surrounded by thousands of pristine crystals, pondering immortality.

At last, Nemeta found the Primordial Crystal, nestled in a cave at the heart of the forest. Sure enough, she found Seath, also; the Duke had perhaps sensed that his long life's work was in peril, and had hurried from his tower high above to prevent its destruction. He was not swift enough. Nemeta kindled Quelana's flame in her palm, and the Primordial Crystal yielded beneath a relentless blaze.

Seath roared in fury, though Nemeta was unsure whether he was angry that his crystal had been destroyed, or if the aeons had driven him completely mad, and he simply became enraged at the slightest inconvenience.

Much later, perhaps Nemeta found it within herself to feel a twinge of sympathy for Seath. Since arriving in Lordran, Nemeta had beheld two other dragons – _oh, how distant her previous life now seemed!_ - the first, savage and pitiless, frightening and terrible; the second, proud and dignified, ancient and unimaginably wise. Her childhood fantasies had come to life before her eyes.

How unlike his brethren Seath was. How misshapen and deformed, how wretched and pitiful; the discoloured skin, the unseeing eyes, the disfigurement, the deformity. It was not unreasonable to imagine that Seath may have been shunned – persecuted, even – by his own kind, who looked upon him as an aberration, an abomination. Perhaps one day, Nemeta would feel sympathy for this creature.

But not now. She felt nothing but disgust, and distaste, and contempt, and righteous fury.

"I don't know what manner of man Lord Gwyn was!" she screamed. "Perhaps he was a good, noble soul, and you deceived and corrupted him! Or perhaps he was a wicked, poisonous man, and both of you were perfectly suited for one another! But it makes no difference, now! When I am Queen of Sunlight, I will fill my court with brave, decent men and women! And evil brutes like you can crawl into the dark holes where you belong!"

Incandescent with hatred, Seath began dragging himself across the ground towards her.

"I've seen your experiments!" she cried. "Those poor things, innocent women that you twisted and perverted. But it doesn't really matter. There's only one woman that you need to think of. Rhea of Thorolund! You thought that she was yet another victim, just another test subject for you to fill your prison with, but you were wrong. She was my friend! She is the reason you die today! You were dead the moment you took her!"

Seath raged and stormed, thrashing and pounding at this insolent human, this _insect._ Meanwhile, a steady, unflinching calm emanated from Nemeta's flame, dulling her fear, honing her focus, channeling her anger into strength. Seath exhausted his strength, and then the Duke was slain. Rhea was avenged, as were the Ancient Dragons that Seath betrayed so long ago, and his soul took its place upon the Lordvessel.

()()()()()()()()()()()

_When Petrus entered the church, he found the Warrior seated on the pews, a drawn sword across his knees, an eerie smile on his face. "Oh..." he said, caught somewhat off-guard. "Ah, good day."_

_The Warrior regarded him silently for a moment. "Looking for someone?" he asked, his voice charged with that unnerving sing-song quality._

_"Ah, I am merely making sure that my Lady is well." He cast a glance around; the church was empty, but for him and this odd man. "Ah, you haven't seen her nearby, have you?"_

_The Warrior was silent for a few moments again, as though words and actions needed to reach him across a wide abyss. "M'lady is not here," he said, finally. "M'lady is somewhere else."_

_"Well," said Petrus, preparing to leave. "I will bother you no more..."_

_"Young Nemeta is not here, either," said the Warrior. "Do you know where she is? She's gone to Anor Londo, to find the Lordvessel. Incredible, isn't she? When she first came here, months ago, I was so sure that she'd be Hollow in no time. Poor, defenceless lamb, crying for her father...she certainly showed me, didn't she?"_

_Petrus stood in that awkward stance that people fall into when they're tethered in place by an unwanted conversation. "She is a remarkable young woman," he said._

_One moment, the Warrior's eyes were in the distance, and the next, they were fixed firmly on the cleric. "So strong. So determined. Such a talented sorceress. And yet! She has a weakness. Do you know what that is?"_

_"No."_

_The Warrior leaned forward in his seat, and peered darkly at Petrus. "I think you do," he said. "It's a weakness shared by **m'lady.**"_

_The cleric's brow furrowed._

_"Neither of them can recognize a scoundrel when he's standing directly in front of them."_

_Suddenly, the Warrior was on his feet, and racing at Petrus. He closed the distance between them, and thrust his sword at the cleric's abdomen, but the blade clattered harmlessly across the side of his shield._

_"What, ho!" the cleric bellowed. He brandished his mace, and tried to get his back to a wall. "Have you gone mad? Have you gone Hollow?"_

_"I may not have the strength to ring bells!" snarled the Warrior. "I may not be magnificent enough to go searching for Lordvessels! But I am more than a match for a roly-poly degenerate such as you!"_

_The Warrior poked and prodded at Petrus' shield, trying to provoke him into swinging his weapon. He wasn't particularly concerned with breaching his defenses; he knew that the cleric did not have much in the way of stamina and fortitude, and that as soon as soon as he was exhausted, he would be easy to strike down._

_"Madman!" roared Petrus. "I will not fail in my duty to protect my charge!"_

_"M'lady will never know what happened to you! She'll never know how you intended to cut her throat."_

_"How dare you!"_

_The Warrior suddenly seemed thoughtful. "Oh, but even if she knew that I saved her, I suppose she'd still be as glum as ever. Still..."_

_A moment's inattention was all that Petrus needed. A massive blast of energy rushed out, knocking the Warrior from his feet, and depositing him heavily on the stone floor. Writhing about on the ground, the Warrior pushed his way through a haze of pain, and then realized with a laugh that he had dropped his sword._

_"Not too shabby," he said. "Not too shabby..."_

_With a scandalized, indignant cry, Petrus brought his mace down on his adversary's head. The Warrior lay sprawled motionless across the flagstones for a few moments, and then the magic keeping his long-dead body intact dissipated, and he crumbled into nothing._

_Gulping at the air, Petrus glared at the spot where his foe had lain defeated. He wondered if the Warrior had told any of the others about his intentions for young Rhea. He wondered if it was safe to return to Firelink. He wondered if he should abandon this place, and find some isolated region of Lordran where he would be secure. Damnation upon that lunatic! With a sinking heart, Petrus realized that the future had become very uncertain, and rather more hazardous._

_Then he heard a growling sound, and looked up._

_The Warrior had lured Petrus away from the elevator to Firelink – perhaps intentionally. He was now at the opposite side of the church. Petrus realized now, also, that their brief fight had been very, very loud._

_The place had filled with Hollows. How silent they could be, when they wanted to be. Balder Knights, noted Petrus. Eight of them. And they're standing between me and my elevator..._

()()()()()()()()()()()

The first time Anastacia mustered the courage to leave her cell, Kingseeker Frampt was snoring loudly. She loitered in front of him for several minutes, wringing her wrists, scuffing her shoes in the dust, looking anxiously about, desperately wishing that some harmless explosion would occur nearby so that the great serpent would _wake__ up._

After gathering some more courage, the Fire Keeper took a deep breath, and cleared her throat – and then winced, instantly ashamed of her own insolence.

Frampt remained steadfastly asleep. Gods, how he smelled!

Anastacia _knew_ that she was being irrational. She knew that, but for herself and Frampt, Firelink was completely empty, and that she could scream and shout and sing as much as she desired; there were none there to hear her, no one for her to offend. All she needed to do to wake Frampt was to fill her lungs, and raise her voice, _just once_...

Anastacia cleared her throat again – and winced, again. To an impartial observer, her voice was as slight as a gentle breeze, but to her, it was as obnoxious and inconsiderate as an earthquake.

Frampt continued to snore. Defeated, Anastacia returned to her cell, and waited until he was awake.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Anastacia realized that Frampt was awake when she heard him grumbling to himself about some piece of meat trapped between his teeth, and the inability of his tongue to dislodge it. It took her a full twenty minutes to scrabble together enough bravery to leave her cell, and then she inched timidly towards his chamber.

"The Fire Keeper of Firelink Shrine!" announced the serpent. "Art thou well?"

"F-forgive me, Kingseeker. I do not wish to offend you with my presence..."

"Come child, do not be bashful. It takes much to offend my senses. I once knew Executioner Smough..."

Too late did Anastacia realize that he was making a joke, and she inwardly scolded herself for not politely laughing. "If it pleases you, Kingseeker...these r-ruins have been abandoned, and there are none else to a-answer my question...a, a woman restored my life to me, and allowed me to continue my duty as Fire Keeper...but I regret that, in my distraction, I did not remember her name, or anything of her. Who was this woman?"

"It was no ordinary woman that rescued you!" said Frampt, grandly. "For young Nemeta of Vinheim is the fabled Chosen Undead, the rightful successor to the Great Lord Gwyn, and the soul prophesied to link the Fire, and end the curse of the Darksign..."

Anastacia blinked in astonishment. "Can it be true?" she breathed.

"Indeed it is! Young Nemeta has accepted her role, and at present, is gathering powerful souls to satiate the Lordvessel."

For a brief few moments, all of the shame and self-loathing that had been hammered into Anastacia vanished, and she spoke freely of her innermost desires. "...she will lift the curse of the Undead...I can die human..."

"When the Fire is linked," said Frampt, "you will have peace, child, in whichever way you seek it. We will all have peace."

"You know," he went on, becoming almost jolly, "it _was_ rather generous of her to resurrect you, was it not, so that you could be alive to witness these momentous days?"

()()()()()()()()()()()

The insects were listening, and Frampt and Anastacia thought nothing of them.

The insects left Firelink, and descended into the chasm, flowing past the Valley of Drakes, down into the murk of Blighttown. There, they swarmed about their Mistress' head, a thousand little voices whispering in her ears, passing on the conversation that they had heard.

Quelana listened, and a cold, affronted anger began to rise within her. She knew when a trickster was spinning lies and deceptions. She knew enough to recognize when a young girl's hopes and vulnerabilities were being preyed upon...

()()()()()()()()()()()

**Thank you for reading. If any of this story seems at odds with the continuity of the game, well, I plead slight AU. The important thing is the characters of Quelana and Nemeta, so that's where my focus goes.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Chapter 5**

Say what you will about Patches the Hyena: he always tried to see the _positives_ in a situation.

Take Blighttown, for example. It was dark, and hot, and humid, and smelly, and full of big fiends that wanted to use you to incubate their eggs, and if you stayed down there too long, your skin would bubble with boils, and your veins would pump pus.

But even Blighttown had virtues. Just took a man like Patches to see 'em.

_Adventurers_! Blighttown was full of adventurers. Strong, brave, courageous, intrepid adventurers. Trusting, naive, easily-led, unwitting adventurers.

Adventurers carried trinkets. Shiny, pretty, expensive trinkets...

Exploring Blighttown, Patches found a spot that he liked: a rickety walkway that the scabrous lepers that inhabited this place had constructed from rotting wood and mildewed rope. He made himself comfortable, and soon enough, yet another gullible soul came stumbling out of the darkness...

"Hello, luv!" He furrowed a suspicious brow. "You 'aven't gone Hollow, have you?"

"I am no Hollow," said a female voice. "What business has a man loitering in Blighttown?"

Now, truth be told, this newcomer wasn't much to look at. She was dressed in a tattered, decrepit old robe, and was even walking around barefoot. Not much chance of valuable little goods to be scavenged from this soon-to-be corpse, he disconsolately noted. On the other hand, she did speak _really_ posh. Perhaps this pile of rags was simply a disguise, and she was trying to conceal great wealth...

"An excellent question!" he grandly proclaimed. "It just so happens that I've spotted a _very_ nice piece of jewellery dangling from a beam over there. It's amazing what you find just lying around these parts, isn't it?"

The woman's face was hidden from view by her cowl, but her shoulders lifted and she clasped her fingers excitedly. "A piece of jewellery?" she asked.

"Yeah! Gold, and encrusted with jewels, a little sparkle of solace in this ugly world! I found it first, but – _curses!_ My back!" He contorted himself theatrically, putting a hand against his spine with a wince of pain. "I'm not as agile as I used to be! Injuries, you see. The perils of battling the Hollowed. Tell you what, you climb over and grab 'old of it, and you can have it for yourself."

She glanced hurriedly about. "Where is it?" she asked.

"Just over there! At the end of the bridge. You have to peer over the edge to see it. Go on, have a look! It'll shimmer you blind...heh heh heh heh..."

The pile of rags shuffled hastily to the edge of the walkway, and Patches had to bite his finger to stifle the laugh building in his chest. Oh, how fortunate for him that he was born into a world teeming with so many _idiots..._

The woman knelt at the edge, and peered intently into the darkness below. Patches tiptoed forward, joyously and excruciatingly aware that any of the wooden boards beneath him could creak loudly at any moment. He loomed over her, raised his right boot, and aimed a kick at her helpless rump...

His foot passed through thin air.

"Woah! Oh, curses!" The woman in rags was gone. Patches teetered precariously at the brink of a sharp drop, his hands flailing about, struggling to regain his balance. "What – what happened?"

He managed to steady himself, and then a hand planted itself on his shoulder, and sent him toppling into the abyss. The last words he heard as the darkness swallowed him: "Blithering fool."

()()()()()()()()()

Patches lay at the bottom of a grimy pit, the leg with which he had attempted to precipitate his victim now twisted at a very unpleasant angle. At any moment, Blighttown's wildlife would come scuttling, slithering or buzzing from the surrounding shadows, and make a meal of him. "Oh, heavens desert me!" he cried. "I'm done for!"

"What?" came the voice of his murderer, her voice dripping with mockery. "Surely the opportunist knows that if he spends his life dealing in trickery and deceit, he will one day meet his match?"

He scrambled about in the muck, peering into the gloom, trying to determine the location of the voice. "No, no!" he said, his voice suddenly imbued with righteous, affronted injury. "You have it all wrong! I do not live a life of trickery and deceit, I swear! I get these _temptations_, you see! I never mean to hurt people, I tell you! Oh, don't leave me here to the monsters, I beg of you!"

"_Temptations?_ Hmmm. Perhaps it's best if I let the fiends have you. If I did save you, then what's to say you won't have any 'temptations' again? I wouldn't want the deaths of innocent people on my conscience..."

"Oh, Gods, I'll go Hollow!"

Bare feet splashed on mud, and then the pile of rags emerged from the blackness, and crouched next to his prone form. "What's become of your silver tongue, thief?"

"If you spare me, my lady, I will be a thief no longer! I promise! I'll become a merchant, and be humble and honest for the rest of my life." This last promise he made with his hand upon his heart.

The pile of rags contemplated him silently for a while; Patches could somehow _feel_ plans and strategies forming within the pool of nothingness that concealed her face. Eventually, she came to a decision, and slowly shook her head.

"No..."

"Oh, cripes!"

"For the time being, I need you to be deceitful and cunning. Don't bite off your silver tongue yet, snake. I need a trickster. You can become humble and honest when I no longer have a use for you."

()()()()()()()()()

Quelana fixed Patches leg. He yelped with pain as the bones reset themselves, and then he leapt nimbly to his feet, and flashed Quelana a predatory smile. "Much obliged!" he grinned. "Nya ha ha ha ha!"

Quelana regarded him silently, long enough for his smile to falter, and then she plunged her hand into his chest.

()()()()()()()()()()

When the agony receded, Patches could tell at once that something had changed. Blighttown seemed to be filled with voices – chattering, babbling, squeaking voices – and it took him a few moments to realize where these voices were coming from.

All of the insects in the swamp were speaking, and he could understand them all. The flies complained of how thick the air was. The maggots commented on the diseased meat that they slowly devoured. The pupae murmured and sighed, nestled deep within the infected flesh of their hosts.

Patches pushed himself to his hands and knees. "What – what's happened to me?" he mewled.

"I've charmed you." Quelana reclined in a corner, the uncaring easiness of her posture all the more incongruous for the forbidding void of her cowl. "Charming, isn't it?"

Patches struggled to his feet, and tried to regain his bearings. "I can hear the creepy-crawlies talking," he said.

"Indeed you can," said Quelana. "I wouldn't listen too closely, though, if I were you. They think you're quite the contemptible little twit."

Patches groaned. "I have to do everything you say, then, do I?"

"Mmmm. You are in my thrall, now. Your will is not your own. But you still have your wits. I need you to be crafty. Like a fox."

"Aren't you crafty enough yourself? _You_ tricked _me_!"

Quelana continued, ignoring him. "At the far end of Blighttown is an ancient oak, called the Great Hollow. Inside the tree, there are thick vines, leading ever downwards. When you finally reach the foot of the Great Hollow, you will emerge onto the shores of a lake, many miles beneath the surface."

"Yeah? And what do you want me to do when I find this lake?"

"Seek out the dragon."

"_The dragon?"_ cried Patches, staggering backwards. "You're going to have me spend hours climbing down a blazing tree, so I can be burnt to ashes by a _dragon_?"

"The dragon won't harm you," replied Quelana, uncaring, "as long as you are polite. You will parley with the creature, as my agent. There is a piece of knowledge that I desire; the dragon may possess this knowledge, or it may not. Whether it betrays this knowledge depends on your persuasiveness."

Quelana ordered Patches to sit before her. She took a deep breath, and forced herself to be patient; tutoring a girl as gifted and intelligent as Nemeta was trying enough, but instructing this cretin, she knew, could well drive her insane.

Quelana explained a message that she wished Patches to deliver to the dragon, and commanded him to repeat it back to her. "What do you need me for?" he moaned. "Can't you talk to the big scaly thing yourself?"

Quelana drew close, and ensured she had the blackguard's full attention. _"Do not mention that you are in my service,"_ she stated. "If the dragon finds out that you are a servant of Quelana of Izalith, _it will kill you_."

()()()()()()()()()()()

Ash Lake. The entire world was held aloft by trees. Lordran, Vinheim, Astora, Carim; deserts and mountains and castles and cities and plains and oceans hoisted to the sun on pillars of ancient, gnarled wood. Here and there, far, far in the distance, shafts of light pierced through the mist, the rays of the sun penetrating the earth and shining upon an endless expanse of black, deathly-still water.

Patches treaded warily along the bone-white coast, deeply unnerved at how the water simply lay motionless at the edge of the shore, never stirring, never rippling, never finding the strength to form waves or a current. Even worse were the suggestions of life; more than once, Patches spotted massive shapes moving about across the surface of the lake.

He was having difficulty finding nice things to say about _this_ place.

_How did I let myself get into this? Bloody pyromancers...I suppose those lousy clerics are right, sometimes..._

_Well, no matter. I've still got my wits about me. I'll bide my time. I'll wait 'til her guard's down, and then she'll see! I'll turn the tables on her! Nya ha, nya ha ha ha ha!_

_Oh, who am I fooling? I'm not some diabolical schemer! I kick people down holes, for pity's sake! I try anything with her, she'll roast me on a spit! Oh, what shall I do?_

After several miles, the way forward narrowed, and he found his path enclosed by vines and branches, the foliage thickening and pressing closer each step he took. When he finally reached his destination, almost all of Ash Lake's peculiar light had been blocked away, and the dragon's grotto swam with its own strange, languid blue glow.

Patches had seen a dragon once before. He'd seen it from _a very great distance_ – and then when it had flown away, he had crawled out of his hiding place, and scurried down to help himself to the belongings of its freshly-cooked victims. He remembered the dragon as a savage, foul-tempered thing, a snapping, slashing, roaring flurry of fire and teeth and claws.

As he approached, the dragon of Ash Lake unfurled its great, black wings, and Patches saw that it was different. His first impression was of lumps of sculpted stone jutting out of a forest of thick, black hair; a reptilian face, a ridged chest, horns, claws, all carved from rock, all protruding from a mass of dense, dark fur. The dragon did not roar at him, nor lunge at him, nor fill its lungs and breathe upon him, nor pull a chair up and encourage him to make himself at home. The creature watched him approach, its expression entirely inscrutable, and Patches realized with a sinking heart that he had no way of knowing whether or not it intended to squish him like the bug that he was.

"Hello!" he said, cheerfully.

The ancient dragon did not return his greeting.

Patches cleared his throat, and went on: "Was passing through the area, just minding my own business. Got a bit of news, though, you might like to hear. Did you know that the flames are about to be linked?"

Buggered if Patches understood what _that_ meant. From its impassive countenance, he had his doubts that the dragon understood, either. Nevertheless, Quelana had made him repeat it to her five times, and that was what he came down here to say.

Patches gave an exaggerated shrug; the dragon was a very large beast, and Patches just decided that it was conducive to good communications to exaggerate his bodily mannerisms. "Yeah," he said. "The First Flame is about to be renewed. Just thought you'd like to know! Knowledge is power, and all that."

At that moment, Patches realized that he was hopping nervously from one foot to the next – dancing a jig before an enormous, aeons-old dragon. He instantly snapped himself back into a confident stance.

"So, how does that make you _feel,_ chum?" According to the rotten pyromancer that had enslaved him, the news would make the dragon very unhappy indeed. _That's right, I've been sent deep into the bowels of the earth to deliver bad news to a dragon._ "Does that make you happy?"

The dragon remained determinately uninterested. Patches abruptly realized that he was hiding anxiously behind his shield, and reminded himself to feign fearlessness.

Patches continued: "The Age of Fire will continue for another thousand years." He didn't know what _that_ meant, either. "Sound good to you? Looking forward to another thousand years of sunlight? Who doesn't like sunlight! Of course, if you _don't_ like sunlight, you've always got your lake here. Yeah! Who wouldn't like to spend another millennium in this place? Lovely ambience! Very peaceful! No wonder you're so easy-going, so much time alone to your thoughts!"

()()()()()()()()()

Quelana had known of the presence of the Everlasting Dragon in Ash Lake for a very long time.

At her most wretched nadirs, she had considered presenting herself to the creature. She knew that it would take one glance at her, and tear her limb from limb. It needed only look at her eyes. Her mother's eyes. The eyes of the Witch of Izalith, the woman that had slain so many of its brethren, and expelled its beloved Darkness.

Had Quelana ever succumbed to suicide, it would have been at the hands of one of the last surviving members of a race that her family had almost exterminated. She was not so selfish that she would sink a knife into her heart in some remote, lonely corner. Better that she kill herself in such a way that it brought a fleeting moment of joy to another.

For the first time in a thousand years, however, the Everlasting Dragon had real power over Quelana. For the first time in a millennium, the Everlasting Dragon could do more than rend her flesh, or cook her to cinders; it could cause her _grief._ And all it had to do was withhold a fragment of knowledge from her, keep a secret just out of her reach.

Quelana suspected that Kingseeker Frampt was misleading her student. She feared that the Primordial Serpent did not entirely have Nemeta's best interests at heart.

Oh, but how to find proof?

What did Quelana of Izalith know of Kingseeker Frampt? She had encountered him on a few occasions, though that had been over a thousand years ago. Her mother was an ally of Gwyn, and Frampt was the Lord of Cinder's advisor and confidante, so it was to be expected that their paths would cross, once or twice. Quelana remembered Frampt as a pompous, pedantic old bore...but was he also a liar? A deceiver?

Quelana conceded that, at his heart, Frampt was possibly a fundamentally good soul...but what if the 'good' that he believed in was a _greater good_, the sort of 'good' that came before the well-being of individuals? Was Frampt willing to sacrifice Nemeta to some abstract ideal?

As the Chosen Undead, Nemeta had been charged with re-kindling the First Flame, but how did the First Flame _work_? Goodness knows, Quelana's mother tried to find out, and see what it brought her...

Gwyn vanished when he set out to rekindle the flame. What became of him? He marched into the deep with his retinue, and was never seen again? Why?

Quelana rathered the universe go dark than anything unpleasant happen to her pupil. The silly little chit had her head filled with fanciful little visions – that blasted Primordial Serpent put many of them there! - and she was convinced that she was going to replace Gwyn, and rule over the world for a thousand years. Queen of Sunlight, indeed...

Quelana had come to a decision: If she could satisfy herself that the Kingseeker was manipulating her pupil, she would forbid Nemeta from linking the flames.

_I'll bind the stupid girl in chains, if need be._

()()()()()()()()()

The dragon's gaze remained steadily upon him, and Patches assumed that the creature was at that moment probably wondering how far it could toss him across the surface of the lake.

"Great news, eh? I tell you, it really puts my mind at ease, knowing the sun is going to be sailing across the sky for the foreseeable future. Oh, that lovely, warm, bright, shiny sun! I'm so grateful that the Age of Dark has been postponed yet again! And you?"

_"You're sending me to antagonize a gigantic, fire-breathing lizard!" Patches had wailed. "Can't you just burn me to a crisp, now, and spare me the walk?"_

_"Hush, child," Quelana had replied. "When you enrage the beast, it will be less careful with its secrets."_

"I heard the news from a fellow called Kingseeker Frampt," said Patches. _Never heard of him._ "Yeah. He told me this 'Chosen Undead' had come along, and that he was going to replace Gwyn, and take his place as the new Lord of Sunlight! Cor, I tell you, if I ever meet that bloke, I'll shake his hand!"

Somehow, the dragon restrained its boundless fury still. Perhaps it _enjoyed_ being insulted...

Patches idly traced a pattern in the sand with the toe of his boot. "You're quite old. Did you ever meet Gwyn?"

The Dragon's voice did not come from its ancient lungs. No breath was pushed through its stony, dust-smothered throat. When the dragon spoke, its words reverberated around the landscape, and Patches could swear that the ageless creature's vocalizations came from the trees, and the black depths, and the mists themselves.

WHAT MANNER OF FOOL CAPERS AND GAMBOLS BEFORE US? WHEN THE NEW LORD OF SUNLIGHT COMETH INTO HIS DOMAIN, WILTST THOU TAKETH THY PLACE AS HIS GIBBERING JESTER? OH, MISGUIDED ART THOU! FOR NO COURT SHALL THE NEW SUN OVERSEE. NO THRONE SHALL THE NEW SUN INHERIT.

INDEED, THE USURPER GWYN DID BANISHETH THE DARK – HE AND HIS CONSPIRATORS, THE BEGGAR KING, AND THE WHORE OF IZALITH. INDEED, THE USURPER GWYN DID CONDEMNETH OUR KIND TO A WRETCHED EXISTENCE, TRAPPED IN THIS DETESTED LIGHT. O, BUT SUCH SUFFERING DID HE ENDURE EVERAFTER! SUCH TORMENT DID HE BEAR, IN THE EMBRACE OF HIS ABOMINABLE FLAME! IN SUCH AGONY HAS HE ABIDED, IN THE ROILING HEART OF THE VERY FIRE HE KINDLED, FOR HUNDREDS OF YEARS!

COME FORTH, THEN, THE NEW AGE OF FIRE! LET THE CURSED SUN BLIGHT THE SKIES FOR ANOTHER AEON. THE SUFFERING OF THE USURPER GWYN DID SUSTAIN US FOR A THOUSAND YEARS. THE SUFFERING OF THOU BELOVED CHOSEN UNDEAD SHALL SUSTAIN US A THOUSAND YEARS MORE.

Patches listened politely, smiling and nodding. "Well, I certainly respect a fellow that can see the positives in a situation!" he said.

And then he was on his heels, dashing his way out of the Everlasting Dragon's grotto, tearing along the coast of Ash Lake, racing towards the foot of the Great Hollow, so that he could climb its innards to the relative sanity of Blighttown, and leave this nightmare behind him.

()()()()()()()()()

The insects reached Blighttown before Patches did. They returned to their Mistress, and enacted the conversation that had taken place between a Dragon and a Hyena. Quelana listened, and her breathing quickened, and her blood raced, and she climbed unsteadily to her feet, suddenly filled with a urgent, overpowering need to find her pupil.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Chapter 6**

The Archives' new inhabitants began to settle into a vague routine.

Solaire had gone, venturing off somewhere again to "find his Sun", the remaining Undead shaking their heads and laughing the moment he was out of earshot.

Sieglinde seemed to linger aimlessly in Anor Londo, nothing keeping her from returning to Catarina, but some indistinct feeling of chivalry obliging her to remain and be helpful.

Laurentius could often be found cross-legged and deep in thought on the Archives' roofs, where his pyromancy was less likely to send Seath's centuries of work up in flames.

Ingward hobbled among the bookcases, not speaking much but occasionally inquiring as to his companions' health.

Logan had cloistered himself in the warmest, quietest, remotest culvert in the Regal Archives that he could find. All throughout the day – and often during the night – Griggs could be seen trudging dejectedly through the vast edifice, carrying armfuls of books that his master requested, and when he wasn't carrying books, he was transporting cups of tea, or plates filled with cakes, or pillows and cushions.

"You know, you're obviously intelligent enough to know this yourself," said Laurentius, "but if you stopped keeping him alive with refreshments or comforts, he might actually be forced to leave his lair and help the rest of us."

Griggs smiled politely. "If it is a matter of 'pulling one's weight', I will take Master Logan's duties here upon myself," he said, in his most conciliatory tone, and Laurentius suddenly realized that this man had dedicated his entire life to maintaining the fragile peace that existed between Big Hat Logan and the rest of humanity.

()()()()()()()()()()()

When Logan deigned to appear before her one day, Nemeta could tell at once that he _wanted_ something. "Enjoying your reading?" she asked, by way of greeting. Had Logan not neglected his studies into the intricacies of human communication, he may have actually noticed the withering sarcasm in her tone.

"Oh, of course!" he said. "Very much so! I don't recall a time in my long career, in fact, when I derived such _reward_ from academic study. Every day brings new revelations. Every turned page brings new epiphanies. To think: I have spent decades seeking out the sharpest minds in sorcery, when all along Seath was residing in his citadel, here, amassing a wealth of knowledge that my colleagues at the university could only imagine in their _wildest_ dreams. Oh, I could become so absorbed with these books that, young Nemeta, you could well become Queen of Sunlight, and I would not notice!"

Logan threw his head back – the movement exaggerated by the broad brim of his hat – and laughed heartily. Nemeta sat in her corner, and thought: _Oh good! That would mean I wouldn't have to invite you to my coronation!_

Logan went on: "No, little danger of that. I comprehend the importance of these circumstances that surround us. Momentous days indeed, are they not? And how privileged we are to be present, as events unfold! An Undead Curse, ravaging the land. A priceless hoard of knowledge and wisdom, hitherto denied to human beings, suddenly bestowed into human hands. The Lord Gywn's long reign, drawing to a close. A new Lord of Sunlight, stepping forth to take his place! And do you know, young Nemeta, what the most wonderful thing about your coming ascension will be?"

"Whatever could it be?" she asked, blandly.

"We will have a countrywoman of Vinheim upon the throne!"

Nemeta blinked, unsure whether she should be baffled or outraged. "_Excuse_ me?" she said.

Logan continued: "Surely, when you assume your place as Gwyn's rightful heir, you will establish your new capital in Vinheim, yes? Imagine what prestige it would bring your nation, to be the seat of power of your new order! Imagine how much superior Vinheim will seem, in comparison to her neighbours, when the Sun herself makes her home there! Ha ha ha! Oh, I eagerly await to see how Astora and Carmina attempt to conceal their inadequacy when we construct our Palace of the Sun..."

"_Vinheim_?" said Nemeta, and Logan was either too self-obsessed or too little experienced in the nuances of human speaking to notice the venom in her voice. "You are referring to the nation which came to my home in the middle of the night and dragged me off, in shackles, while my mother and father watched? You mean the same Vinheim that sent me to rot away in that asylum until I went Hollow?"

Logan swept aside her grievances with a dismissive wave. "Phtah! When you are Queen of Sunlight, you must put aside petty personal considerations for the greater good." This point was accompanied with an instructive – and highly condescending – raised finger, the type that he might raise if he were in a lecture hall with an audience of pupils.

"Master Logan, did you come to me for a particular _reason_?" asked Nemeta, her patience fraying.

"Yes," he said. "My concern lies not merely with the prestige of Vinheim, but also the preservation of academic achievement. Young Nemeta, Seath's work is of _immense_, incalculable value, of that there is no question. However, these Archives – these walls, these hallways, these passages – are mere stonework and masonry. They can be easily torn down, with little cost for posterity."

Logan stepped close to her, and despite all the power that she had accumulated, despite all the demons and monstrosities that she had overcome, Nemeta was still seized by a faint frisson of discomfort. "I must secure a promise from you," he whispered conspiratorially. "As Queen of Sunlight, your duty will be to protect and champion culture, and learning, and wisdom. When you come into your dominion, and succeed Gwyn, _these books must not remain in Lordran._ They must be conveyed to Vinheim, where they will be safe, away from the attentions of thieves and barbarians and deranged Hollows. After you link the flames, we will construct a new archive building – named after you, naturally, as so many other fine buildings will be – and there we will store Seath's work. Imagine what benefit the students of the universities would obtain from them! Imagine what dizzying heights Vinheim could reach with such learning at its disposal! Imagine how boundlessly the folk of Vinheim will cherish you, to know that you blessed them so!"

"You're asking me move all of these books to Vinheim?" said Nemeta, one sceptical eyebrow raised. "There's _tens of thousands_ of them."

Logan shrugged. "T'would be a modest feat indeed, for a Queen of Sunlight..."

()()()()()()()()()()

Patches stumbling along at her heel, Quelana crossed the marsh, and clambered aboard the gigantic wooden contrivance that would bear them upwards to the surface of Lordran. Only as Blighttown was dwindling beneath them did she realize that she wasn't even sure of her own intentions.

When the Everlasting Dragon revealed Nemeta's true destiny – hatred and vengeance practically oozing from its ancient tongue – Nemeta was filled at once with a sickening chill, a stomach-turning concoction of anger, terror, and, worst of all..._powerlessness._ She had paced up and down across the banks of the swamp, unaware that her eyes were bulging, unaware that her fingers were gesticulating wildly, unaware that she was snatching up the putrid air of the mire in frantic, hurried snorts. She suddenly felt as though all the power in all of Lordran was arrayed against her; she would attempt to seek out her student, but Frampt and Gwynevere would scheme and conspire to keep them apart, to prevent Quelana from warning Nemeta of her awful fate until it was too late.

As the ropes pulled and stretched, carrying her ever higher, Quelana thought: _To what end am I working towards? I wish to do what is right by my pupil, do I not?_

_Or do I simply wish to protect her, regardless of what is right?_

_When I find Nemeta, what should I tell her? That her hopes are for naught? That she is going to endure a thousand years burning in agony at the heart of the First Flame? That she is going to spend a thousand years atoning for her childish, silly dreams?_

_Foolish thing. See how far your fancies have taken you._

_If I tell her the truth, how will she respond? Well, I expect there will be a lot of crying, and screaming, and accusations. Our saviour is going to have a tantrum. That is sure to be enjoyable. _

_But what then? What comes after?_

The contraption deposited Quelana and Patches on a walkway high above the marsh. Bidding her servant to take the lead, Quelana followed Patches as he navigated his way up a baffling network of ladders, ropes, walkways and bridges, the air growing clearer and crisper the further they went.

Even though Nemeta was in dire peril, and even though Quelana's mind was alive with images of her pupil writhing in flames, the familiar comforts of home exerted their pull on her, and as Blighttown receded further and further into the shadows, Quelana was seized by an overpowering, suffocating anxiety, a cloying dread that demanded much effort to conceal from her slave. Even now, while her protege was in terrible danger, part of Quelana wished to turn back, to return to her old den. Part of her wished to curl up in the reeds, and drift to sleep, and dream that her mother and sisters were still alive.

_Let my student sacrifice herself. I deserve another thousand years of punishment._

_Coward. I'll never escape what I am, will I? Not truly._

At last, they made their way down a long, winding passageway, finally emerging upon a ledge on the side of a wide gorge. Peering over the edge, gazing into the noxious murk that had been her home for so many centuries, Quelana tried to remember how long it had been since she had ventured outside of Blighttown.

()()()()()()()()()

Late one night, Laurentius wandered about the Archives, and happened across a six-eyed sorcerer, lurking in a narrow space between bookshelves.

There was much shouting, and struggling, until at last the others – Logan excepted, of course – came running, and the sorcerer was defeated.

"How did he get inside?" asked Sieglinde.

"There's supposed to always be a guard posted at the entrance!" said Laurentius. "Right, who nodded off and let him in?"

"Until recently, these Archives were the sorcerers' lair," said Griggs. "Who knows what secret passages there are, in and out of the place?"

The group collectively groaned.

"I'm going down into the Catacombs, soon!" said Nemeta, indignant. "This is just another problem that I did not ask for!"

"Well, there is no sense in losing our minds," urged Griggs. "While Lady Nemeta is preparing for her expedition, the rest of us should remain alert, and see if there is anything else that the Archives are hiding from us..."

()()()()()()()()()

Patches stretched his arms wide, and filled his lungs. Granted, the quality of air in the Valley of Drakes was not exactly exemplary, what with a gargantuan Undead Dragon in residence nearby, but it was certainly an improvement upon Blighttown. "Ah! Never thought I'd see the day!"

Gazing warily around at the unfamiliar landscape, Quelana felt pangs of discomfort and fear entirely different in nature from the desperate terror that had driven her from her home. "Are you acquainted with this realm, trickster?" she asked.

"Am I? I tell you, I could make a very lucrative living as a guide! Not that there's much demand for such things in this particular locale...people don't come here to see the sights...they come here to drop dead, and rot to ashes..."

"Yes, yes," she said, in no mood for a lackwit's ramblings. "We're going to Firelink Shrine. Lead me there."

A hint of gallant chivalry becoming evident in his bearing, as though he were escorting a helpless maiden, Patches began marching through the valley, Quelana following quietly in his path. Now that they were clear of Blighttown, and traversing a less oppressive region, Patches evidently felt more at ease, which had the unfortunate effect of loosening his tongue.

"I had a hard life, I did! Abandoned on a doorstep. When I was old enough to walk, I was old enough to steal, and so I was sold to a man who had his very own army of children thieves. A dozen of us, sleeping together on the floor in a single room. Yeah, he'd send us out onto the streets everyday, to sneak our little fingers into rich peoples' pockets. We got a right thrashing if we didn't earn our keep."

"I used to be a humble, honest merchant, you know, but I tell you, the Undead Curse has _ruined_ the economy! Forced me out of work!"

"I bloody hate clerics! Lying, thieving, backstabbing, two-faced crooks – well, I am too, but they do it on a much grander scale! And you know what I hate about clerics most of all? Know what _really_ gets my hackles up? _The unjust persecution of pyromancers!_ I tell you, the ill-treatment of pyromancers makes me sick! Pyromancers have no better friend than me, let me tell you. Yeah, I'd give a limb, if it helped a pyromancer..."

Patches babbled on, and Quelana trudged along in his wake, becoming increasingly lost in her thoughts, until the charlatan's voice had become as distant and inconsequential as the constant buzzing in the background of the Blighttown swamp.

_If I tell Nemeta the truth, what then?_

_What if she does not believe me? No, no, she will take me at my word. She is my student; I have her trust, if not her respect._

_She will abandon her destiny, surely? She is merely a young girl; she hasn't the stomach to sacrifice herself. The only reason the silly thing has come so far is that she's convinced that she is going to become the Queen of Sunlight! It was not strength or bravery that empowered her to ring the bells, or to claim the Lordvessel, or to slay Seath. It was fairy tales and fantasies!_

_If I tell her that Frampt and Gwynevere have been manipulating her, she will abandon this silly quest, will she not?_

_She will._

_I know my own student._

_I know my own student. I know how foolish she is. I know how daft she is. I know how she gets that glint in her eye just before she does something that she knows will infuriate me._

_Nemeta got it into her silly, unreasonable, fancy-filled head that she was going to be the new Lord of Cinder._

_What if she gets it into her head to sacrifice herself?_

_She'll do it just to madden me, she will._

_Frampt and Gwynevere will attempt to manipulate her. I have an inkling that Frampt is too old and stuffy to have much power over Nemeta at all, but Gwynevere... _

_Gwynevere will prey on her guilt. She'll make use of the admiration the young girl has for her. If Nemeta betrays so much as a hint of reluctance to inherit Gwyn's mantle, Gwynevere will deploy that heartbroken expression of hers, and then Nemeta will cast herself into the flames just to restore the Princess' damnable feelings. _

Quelana remembered Gwynevere. They were both daughters to Primeval Lords. Princess of Sunlight Gwynevere got to swan around in opulent palaces, feast on delectable dishes, and dress herself in absurdly luxurious robes. Meanwhile, Daughter of Chaos Quelana got to constantly perspire from the molten lava that surrounded her, subsisted on worms and grubs as part of the ascetic lifestyle forced upon her by her mother, and dressed in heavy black robes that itched and clung to her skin in the heat.

Oh, how Quelana hated to hear Nemeta gush about simpering, ladylike Gwynevere.

_I'll bind Nemeta in chains. I'll drag her back down to Blighttown, and I'll hide her there, as I hid myself for a thousand years. _

_Gwynevere will send her agents to free her. No matter. I'll carry her to Ash Lake. I'll imprison her within the roots of a tree, and I'll bring her little treats and presents to keep her happy. The Everlasting Dragon lurks down there, but Ash Lake is inconceivably vast. They'll never find us. No one will ever find us._

_But she will never forgive me..._

_No._

_I must tell Nemeta the truth. It's the only way. But what if she chooses to sacrifice herself? _

_I must horrify, and terrify her. It falls to me to tell her of the thousand years of agony that await her, if she links the flame. I need to tell her of the dreadful fury of the Everlasting Dragon, and the cruel, pitiless joy that it will take in her suffering._

_I need to fill her with fear, so that she will abandon her task._

_And then I must steal her far, far away from Lordran._

()()()()()()()()()()

Early one morning, Big Hat Logan exploded with rage. Griggs tried his best to placate the man, to no avail. Logan stormed through the Archives, in search of Nemeta, Griggs trailing after him, begging him to return to his study, wondering aloud if it would in fact not be more polite to deliver a message to the lady instead of disturbing her...

The sorcerers found Nemeta hunched in a corner, cradling a flame in her palm. "Young Nemeta," bellowed Logan, his face red, his voice quavering. "Books are being stolen from the Archives!"

Nemeta regarded him dully. "Really?" she said, at last.

"It's the six-eyed sorcerers!" he snarled. "They steal inside during the night, and slink away with their slain master's work! Curses upon them!"

Over Logan's shoulder, Nemeta could see Grigg's mortified, apologetic face. "Well, perhaps if you took part in guard duty, they wouldn't get in," she said.

Logan predictably ignored her. "Young Nemeta, we must recover those books, they're priceless! As a student of sorcery, surely you comprehend the importance of this! We must find the sorcerers' new den, and reclaim what has been lost!"

_Perhaps if you squinted at the walls as well as you squint at those books, you'd find out how these sorcerers are getting in._

()()()()()()()()()()

Patches had, of course, tried to lead his captor into a trap. Quelana was not so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not notice that the thief was purposely luring her in circles around a forest, probably hoping that some peculiar tree creature would ambush and kill her. She seized him by the scruff of his neck, and then forced him inelegantly against a tree, the roiling inferno of her pyromancy flame hovering inches from his wide, terrified eyes.

"You have three hours to bring me to Firelink," she said. "And then I burn you to a cinder. I'm willing to run, if it saves your life."

He made it, to his credit. They raced through the forest, into the rubble of an old church, past a bewildered-looking blacksmith, his hammer frozen in mid-strike, into a deserted city, through the side entrance of a decidedly more intact church, and finally down a long elevator to the shrine. Quelana left Patches bent double at the entrance to Firelink, coughing and spluttering, struggling to regain his breath, while she advanced through the ruins, searching for her student.

()()()()()()()()()()

At last, Nemeta managed to purge the irritation that Logan had caused within her, and returned to her flame.

When Quelana gave Nemeta part of her flame, she gave the girl part of her _essence_. Nemeta peered into the fire as it quivered and fluttered in her palm. Gradually, her surroundings retreated away from her awareness. The Archives, gone. Anor Londo, lost to shadows. Lordran, a distant nightmare in the past. Her mother and father, a painful memory, now forgotten. The hordes of Hollowed, far beyond her reach. Seath the Scaleless, a powerless fiend, unable to harm her.

Eventually, Nemeta was floating in a warm, welcoming void. There was nothing but herself, and the fragments of her Mistress' soul contained within the flame.

()()()()()()()()()()

Quelana allowed her cowl to fall to her shoulders, and Frampt's massive, bloodshot, jaundiced eyes widened in astonishment. "The Witch of Izalith!" he breathed. "Can it be?"

Quelana pulled the hood back over her forehead, guiding the errant strands of her hair back into the darkness within. "My mother perished a thousand years ago," she said. "I am all that remains of her...her eyes, and her nose, and her cheekbones. I am Quelana, last surviving Daughter of Izalith."

Frampt regarded her gravely. "Your mother, the Witch of Izalith, still lives."

"But not for long, I take it."

The serpent peered warily at her. "Hmmm. You have heard, then."

Quelana nodded. "Indeed. The news reached even my far-flung home. A Chosen Undead has arisen to link the flame. She has been tasked with slaying the Primeval Lords, and claiming the throne of Lord Gwyn."

"That is correct."

"What is the Chosen Undead's name?"

"Nemeta of Vinheim."

For months, Quelana's insect servants had followed Nemeta around Lordran, tracking her movements, listening upon her conversations. Quelana knew that Nemeta had kept her a secret; she had spoken of her to no one – least of all to Primordial Serpents – and there wasn't a soul in the realm that knew that the Chosen Undead was the student of a Daughter of Chaos.

There was no danger in revealing herself to Frampt, Quelana knew. He did not know of her allegiance to Nemeta.

"I've never heard of Vinheim," said Quelana. "Is it an impressive kingdom?"

If Primordial Serpents came equipped with shoulders, Frampt would at that moment have shrugged. "I have never seen it myself. I have been rather _somnolent_ these past few centuries. It can't be _too_ modest, considering that it gifted us with Lord Gwyn's heir," he said.

Quelana looked about. "Is the Chosen Undead here, now, in these ruins?" Hardly anyone was present – was this not the place where all the sane Undead gathered? The shrine was almost deserted.

"No," said Frampt. "The Chosen Undead has slain the Duke of Anor Londo, Seath the Scaleless, and now occupies the Regal Archives."

_She's in the Archives._ "I see," said Quelana. "Part of Lord Gwyn's Primeval Soul has already been reclaimed, then..."

"Indeed. The Chosen Undead must now acquire the Primeval Souls of the Gravelord Nito...and your mother, Daughter of Chaos."

"My mother perished a thousand years ago," insisted Quelana. "That abomination in Izalith possesses nothing of her wisdom, nothing of her knowledge, nothing of her passion. My mother is dead!"

"Then you will not oppose the Chosen Undead in her quest to vanquish the creature that..._replaced_ your mother?"

"_Of_ _course_ _not_. I will not stand in the way of history. Lord Gwyn's successor may have his throne."

Frampt nodded, satisfied. "Very well. It pleases me, Quelana of Izalith, that you survived the destruction of that great city. Tell me: when the reign of Nemeta is ushered in, do you intend to make yourself more_...conspicuous?_ We stand upon the cusp of a new era. It would greatly benefit the world if a Daughter of Chaos chose to serve in the court of the new Sun."

"We shall see," replied Quelana. "Perhaps I have indulged too long in solitude."

She turned to leave. As she was at the threshold, she turned back towards the serpent.

"Kingseeker Frampt, is Nemeta of Vinheim _truly_ a worthy successor to Lord Gwyn?"

Frampt seemed taken off-guard by this question. "What could you mean?"

"Is she a fitting heir to Lord Gwyn? Is she wise? Brave? Just? Strong?"

The Primordial Serpent was an ugly, warped creature indeed, but even with its misshapen features, Quelana could tell that the thing was confused. "She has claimed the Lordvessel," he said, his booming voice seeming paradoxically faint, as though he was stating the most obvious truth imaginable. "Soon she will gather the Primeval Souls. Of course she is a worthy successor to Lord Gwyn."

Quelana allowed her gaze to fall to the ground, and affected an air of sadness and dejection. "Lord Gwyn was the finest of men. Courageous. Mighty. Learned. Kind. Honourable. I remember him so well, even now. He endures so well in my memory."

Frampt seemed to sag. "None have forgotten him," he said, his voice leaden and empty.

"Is the Chosen Undead truly his equal, Kingseeker?" _Her_ voice was hopeful, though infused with pleading. "Such _wickedness_, in this world, and such _evil_. Is Nemeta truly up to the task?"

"She has overcome all the trials and tests with which this land could confront her..."

"...as could an accomplished thief, or a skilled liar, or a cunning murderer. The world has no need for mercenaries, or sellswords, Kingseeker. It needs a _Sun_. As Kingseeker, you are tasked with discovering a deserving replacement for Lord Gwyn. You have seen this girl, Nemeta, with your own eyes. What do you make of her? What, in your estimation, marks her as a worthy heir?"

Frampt cleared his throat, and began stumbling and staggering through his assessment of Nemeta's character. "She...well...she is full of life, clearly. She will certainly prove to be a _vibrant_ Sun. Also, she is...uhm...she has a very strong sense of justice, yes! Lord Gwyn's great virtue and moral excellence will endure in his successor, of that there is no doubt. Furthermore, the Chosen Undead has a great interest in...in..."

Quelana motioned him onwards. "...yes?"

"...in...in..._fashion._ Yes. The new Queen of Sunlight will be very _fashionable._ Lord Gwyn was never one for style, it must be said. The Princess Gwynevere will be very pleased that the new Sun will have such a sense of..._elegance._..yes..."

Clearly, no creature in Lordran was better suited to deciding the suitability of prospective monarchs than Kingseeker Frampt.

Quelana was not yet satisfied. "What do you imagine the kingdom of Nemeta will be like, Kingseeker?"

"Very just," he declared. "Very fair. Very._.._uhm._..youthful._ And very well-dressed."

He was a pompous, self-important, self-righteous creature, drunk with the prestige that Gwyn's legacy granted him. But even as he blathered on, even as he became lost in his own indulgent vanity, as Quelana peered at him from the darkness of her cowl, she perceived an undeniable _grief_ in his eyes, a sorrow and bitterness that Frampt could not quite disguise.

Frampt was describing a kingdom that he knew would never exist. Frampt knew well that if Nemeta linked the fire, she would be condemned to a thousand years of agonizing flames.

"You have put my doubts at rest, Kingseeker," said Quelana. "Thank you."

And with that, she turned on her heels, and made her way out of Firelink.

()()()()()()()()()()

"Where to now, My Lady?" said Patches, brightly.

"Anor Londo," said Quelana. "Do you know the way?"

"Oooh, there's only one way to Anor Londo! We have to go by Sen's Fortress. No worries! It's a straightforward journey, nothing to worry about at all! Nya hah hah hah!"

Quelana sighed. She had no other choice. Sen's Fortress it was.

()()()()()()()()()()()

The Undead turned out for Nemeta as she prepared to set out for the Catacombs.

"This is so strange!" said Sieglinde. "When I was a child, I used to leave chestnuts out for Nito every year on the Night Of The Dead. And now you're venturing out to slay him!"

"My father used to tell me stories about him, at bedtime," said Nemeta. "Papa's eyes would have popped out of his skull if he had ever known that one day his girl would be _fighting_ him."

"It's strange, really," said Laurentius. "I always thought that, of all the kings, in all the world, old Nito was the one who would rule on his throne for all time. How can you topple _death_? But you will do it, my friend! An Undead Curse, Lord Gwyn being replaced, the First of the Dead being slain – I suppose we really _are_ witnessing a revolution. These are weird times, indeed. Stay safe, friend."

"As a healer, I spent my entire life fighting the Gravelord," said Ingward, "fending him away from the sick and the weak. I hope you give him an awful thrashing."

"Good luck," said Griggs. "When you return from your journey, I promise you these archives will be a lot more comfortable than you remember them."

Logan had chosen not to be present.

"Thank you all, very much," said Nemeta. "See you all again soon."

Nemeta knelt next to the bonfire, and transported herself to Firelink Shrine.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Chapter 7**

Nemeta said: "Nito. The First of the Dead. What does that even _mean?"_

Ever since the day Blacksmith Vamos' face finally rotted completely away and fell off his skull, he had to rely on his voice and posture to convey his emotions. At this very moment, he was feeling rather _irritated,_ and so he let loose a long, wearied sigh, and exaggeratedly sagged his shoulders. "What does _what_ mean?" he growled.

"Why is Nito 'The First of the Dead'?"

"Well, it's not advanced alchemy, is it? Lord Nito is The First Of The Dead because he was the first man ever to set foot in the underworld. He was the first mortal ever to perish."

"_That's it?_" Nemeta seemed genuinely displeased; offended, almost. "Nito proclaimed himself the ruler of the realm of the dead simply because he was so incompetent that he got himself killed before everyone else? Doesn't set a very high standard for royalty, does it? I have to fill up the Lordvessel and link the flames before I can declare myself Queen of Sunlight, you know. I have to _earn_ my lordliness."

Had Vamos still been in possession of his breath, he would have grumbled under it. Instead, he yanked a sword from the coals, and prepared to bring his hammer down. Vamos was not accustomed to suffering fools, but this particular fool had an occasional habit of bringing him the most remarkable embers, memories of Flames that could make metal do the most _wondrous_ things. And so Nemeta babbled and chattered away, and Vamos gritted his teeth – all the enamel decayed away long ago – and tried to allow her words to wash harmlessly over him.

Vamos was willing to suffer a little, for the sake of his craft.

Another notion drifted into Nemeta's head. "What if a _mouse_ had been the first to die?"

Vamos struck the red-hot metal.

"Would we hold feasts in honour of a gigantic, skeletal rodent?"

Another hammer blow; another burst of sparks.

"Does it not bother you that I'm going to slay your Lord?"

The hammer hovered in mid-air, then lowered, and Vamos turned in his seat. Nemeta was leaning insouciantly against the wall of the crypt, staring blandly at him.

Vamos knew how powerful Nemeta had become. When she had first come to Lordran, Nemeta was a scared, waifish little girl, desperately yearning for home. Now, the scared, waifish little girl was an illusion, a costume, a disguise.

What did she _want?_ Was she trying to provoke him into a fight? Vamos knew that he wasn't a match for her, as bitterly as it pained him to admit...

Vamos set his tool aside, and fixed his gaze on Nemeta a moment. At last, he asked: "When you were little, and it was time for your bed, did your father tell you a story, before you went to sleep?"

Nemeta's brow creased in confusion. "Yes?" she replied.

"If I tell you a story, little girl, will you bugger off and leave me to my smithing?"

Her expression turned sour, in the same way that it sometimes did when people made unflattering comments about her dress. "Tell your story, then," she said.

Vamos made himself comfortable, and for a fleeting moment, Nemeta fancied that she might be a child again, seated at the feet of a storytelling crone, the room awash with the light from an open fire. Vamos began: "In the Age of Ancients, the world was unformed, shrouded with mist. A land of grey crags, towering trees and ageless, everlasting dragons..."

Nemeta groaned openly, and rolled her eyes. "And then the Flame came, and then Disparity, and then there was light and dark, and life and death, and heat and cold, tra la la la la. _Everyone_ knows that story."

Vamos leaned forward, demanding her attention. "Yeah, but do you ever really _think_ about it?"

She rather theatrically straightened herself. "Pray tell, o blacksmith, what aspect of the myth have I neglected?"

"When the First Flame appeared, it brought Disparity. Light and dark, warmth and cold, and, most relevant to our interests, life and death. _Life and death._ Do you understand? Without the Flame, there is no life and death."

Nemeta's features scrunched up as she made sense of this. "No life and death...no Gravelord."

Vamos went on: "If you knock off Lord Nito, you take his soul, and feed it to the Lordvessel, and then you go on to link the Flame – at least, that's the plan. If Lord Nito does you in, the Flame goes out. No Flame, no Disparity, no life...no death. We go back to the way things were when the Eternal Dragons ruled."

"Lord Nito will still exist, but without life or death, what sort of realm would he rule over, then? No one being born, no one dying. The whole world, occluded by mist. No time, no getting old, no decomposing and rotting into ashes, just..._eternity_. A miserable dominion, indeed! No, Lord Nito _wants you to slay him._ He wants you to become the new Sun. Time runs short for the Gravelord, one way or the other. If the Flame is linked once more, Lord Nito will be gone, but at least there'll be _death_. At least flies will settle upon rotting flesh. At least maggots will feast upon kings. Keh heh heh heh heh!"

Nemeta seemed doubtful. "Is Nito going to let me just _slay_ him?"

"No, of course not!" came the abrasive reply. "He's a _king._ He has standards to keep. He'll fight you; he'll give you a bloody good fight. He just wants you to win."

"Well," said Nemeta, hotly. "When he's bearing down on me in an avalanche of disease and death, I'll be sure to take comfort in the thought that _his heart's not in it._"

()()()()()()()()()()

Sen's Fortress was built as a proving grounds by the ancient gods.

So what did Quelana have to prove?

That she was worthy of setting foot in Anor Londo? That she was deserving of entry to the gods' gleaming marble city?

'The gods'.

Gwyn, the Lord of Cinder, had always respected the Witch of Izalith, and rightfully so; she possessed her own Lord Soul, and she and her daughters had played as crucial a role in the victory against the Everlasting Dragons as he. Lord Gwyn knew that the Witch of Izalith was wise, and strong, and powerful.

Unfortunately, the respect that he held for the Legendary Witch was not in evidence in his children.

The Firstborn. Gwynevere, the Princess of Sunlight. Gwyndolin, the Dark Moon. They had always looked down upon the Witch of Izalith, and her daughters. No, no respect was to be accorded to pagan enchantresses living in a cave far below the surface, far from the light of the glorious Sun. No respect was to be accorded an eccentric sorceress who jealously guarded her brood from the outside world. On the occasions that Quelana and her sisters visited Gwyn's palace in Anor Londo, Gwynevere and Gwyndolin would treat them with no more reverence than they would their court jesters.

In the caverns of Izalith, the Daughters of Chaos subsisted on grubs and larvae. Gwyn's children found it _so_ amusing when they discovered that they did not even know how to utilize cutlery.

On a fundamental level, Quelana had always been ashamed to be her mother's daughter.

_Of course_ it embarrassed her that she and her sisters scrabbled about in the dust and shadows while Gwyn's offspring flounced about in exquisitely-tailored finery.

_Of course_ it embarrassed her that she and her sisters were so tragically, excruciatingly ill-prepared for life beyond Izalith.

_Of course_ it embarrassed her that a prince, or a king, or a particularly powerful hero, could win her mother's favour by offering his seed.

Of course it embarrassed her that she and her sisters partook in rituals involving nudity, and dancing, and animal sacrifice, and that high society in Anor Londo _loved to make jokes about it_.

"_Why is it that no one ever tells stories about your brothers?" Nemeta had asked, once._

"_We never had brothers," said Quelana. "Never for very long. Whenever mother gave birth to a boy, if he was lucky, he would be allowed to leave with his father. If his father wasn't there, or if he didn't want him, mother cast him to the fires."_

_Nemeta spluttered with appalled laughter, and, inwardly, Quelana's heart broke. Nemeta changed the subject, babbling blithely about inconsequential things, and it never even occurred to her that Quelana had just unveiled secrets that she could not bring herself to reveal for over a thousand years._

Sen's Fortress had been built with the purpose of testing Undead pilgrims that wished to seek out the Realm of the Gods; essentially, it was intended as a mechanism to ensure that Nemeta was worthy of inheriting Gwyn's crown. Standing in the interior of the fortress now, however, Quelana was seized by an unshakeable certainty instead that the place was constructed with the sole purpose of _offending_ her.

Quelana needed to deliver a warning to her student.

Her student was in Anor Londo.

Sen's Fortress was obstructing her, and what a perplexing, treacherous, painstakingly-crafted obstruction it was.

The swinging pendulums, the narrow walkways, the gaping chasms, the concealed pressure plates, the tumbling boulders, the Snakemen, all hindering her, delaying her, frustrating her, all conspiring together to boil her blood with outraged indignation.

What did Quelana have to prove?

That she desired with all her heart to help her pupil?

That she deserved to sabotage Gwynevere's deception?

That a creature as lowly as a Daughter of Chaos was fit to walk the flagstones of shining, lustrous Anor Londo?

Sighing deeply, Quelana allowed herself to simmer in rage a moment, and then pressed on through the fortress. Her anger alone would not help Nemeta.

()()()()()()()()()()()

The thing that most unnerved Griggs about the Regal Archives was how surrealistically _ubiquitous_ Seath's books were. They were _everywhere._ In the main part of the building, Seath had long ago filled all of the bookshelves to capacity. When that space was exhausted, he had stored his tomes in the prison wing, installing shelves up and down the length and breadth of the massive place, books stowed away alongside his anguished magic experiments. Every day, the Undead discovered some new hidden nook or culvert, all filled with the crazed Duke's research.

"I dare say there's not a book in this entire edifice that will not intrigue me, Griggs!" said Logan. "To say nothing of his intellect and knowledge, Seath was a very _engaging_ writer! So many great sorcerers were rather _dry_ reads...quite ironic, isn't it, that a _dragon_ knew how to engross and captivate his readership! Have you not perused the Archives yourself, Griggs? You should do so at first convenience; this fire-breathing beast really wrote very good prose!"

"Master, as your apprentice, my duty is to ensure that your academic faculties remain as sharp as ever...would you not consider a rest? You have been studying relentlessly for days..."

"Nonsense! I've never been so spellbound by research in my entire career. I feel as though I could continue this for weeks! I tell you, Griggs, when young Nemeta has lifted the curse, and we are able to return to Vinheim, I will devote all my energy exclusively to the study of this fine work."

_Well, that is good news_, thought Griggs. _You can concentrate on Seath, and all the other professors can deal with respectable magic, and never have to endure your company again._

"Sometimes I don't know whether to be astounded by Seath's intellectual accomplishments, or be moved by his...his...oh, I shouldn't say it, but...his _humanity._"

"Master!"

"He desired_ eternity_ so much, Griggs! That is the one theme that endures throughout this entire body of work! Crack open any book in this entire citadel, and you will perceive the yearning that Seath had for immortality - for the immortality that his brethren possessed, and which was denied him. You can see the burden that his inevitable death placed upon him. It was his sole obsession in the entire world."

"Innocent people were tortured and murdered for the sake of his research, Master."

"Precisely!" said Logan, beaming. "Which is why we have a moral duty to ensure that Seath's knowledge benefits humankind. Their sacrifice must not be in vain, Griggs."

()()()()()()()()()()

Navigating their way through the upper levels of the fortress, Quelana and Patches entered a chamber, and discovered a man huddled deep in thought in a corner. He was clad head-to-foot in thick plate armour, with an iron greatsword waiting at his side, but such was his air of despondency and hopelessness, that the overall impression was that of a scrawny, cold child hiding himself beneath wooden boards to shelter from the rain.

"Hello!" said Patches, cheerily. It was then that he noticed the crates and chests surrounding the stranger. "Ooh, not travelling light, this one."

The stranger's eyes were wide and frightened, his skin sallow and clammy; it seemed as though they had dragged him from some morbid trance. Finally, he said: "I'm not travelling at all. These goods stay here, and so do I. This is my lot in life. Don't steal from me, please."

Patches put his hands to his mouth, stifling a horrified gasp. "_Steal from you?_ Good sir, you have mistaken me for a common thief. I am a heroic adventurer, en route to Anor Londo."

The stranger seemed unimpressed. "Oh, but don't misunderstand. It really doesn't matter to me if you steal my wares. You'll only get killed by the Hollows, and then I'll have to carry it all back."

Patches eyes narrowed in confusion. "Are you a merchant?"

"What's mine is yours, but at a price."

"I have a difficult time picturing this place as a thriving hub of economic activity," said Patches. "Where do you get your wares?"

"From fools such as yourselves. Oh, don't worry; unlike you, I'm not a thief. I just scavenge trinkets and baubles from the corpses of people braver, stronger and more deluded than myself."

"Well, it _is_ a lucrative way of making a living," said Patches, and both the merchant and Quelana understood at once that he was speaking from experience. "Have to be careful to nab the loot before they go Hollow, though, eh?"

"Yes," said the merchant."You have to be quick."

The merchant peered over Patches' shoulder, at the figure standing silently behind him. "Is your companion shy, hmmm? Hiding something underneath those robes? Is she almost Hollow? Ashamed of her rotting, putrid flesh?"

Quelana stepped around Patches, and addressed the merchant. "Are you a student of pyromancy?" she asked.

"Pyromancy? No, no. No, I was a soldier, once. In my old life. I came to Lordran in search of fortune and glory. Just like all the others. Just like you."

"I am no treasure seeker," said Quelana. _And I did not spend a thousand years wandering a swamp to be told otherwise._ "I have no interest in fortune and glory."

The merchant waved a dismissive hand. "Bah. We're all here for the same reason. You see, I used to believe in the 'fundamental goodness of humanity'. Until I learned better. We're really no different than those vile creatures roaming about. We're all driven by conceit."

"Perhaps if you could bring yourself to care about someone other than yourself," said Quelana, "you could bring yourself to leave this place. Come, Patches. We will bring our patronage elsewhere."

They made their way out the door. "You think you're different?" said the merchant, apparently caring little whether his voice was audible or not. "You can't hide it, you know. Your avarice. Your greed. You're really only fooling yourself."

Quelana left, and for a few hours after, wondered how an ordinary human could see through the magic that obscured her from the vision of mortals.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Chapter 8**

Nito fell, and as his servants crumbled to dust around him, and the cloying evil that pervaded the chamber dissipated to nothing, Nemeta stepped through the rapidly-dissolving remnants of his massive form and claimed his Lord Soul.

She quaffed at her Estus flask, and then waited for her breathing to return to normal.

Nemeta realized that she hadn't seen her Mistress in weeks. She hadn't _meant_ to be neglectful, but first Lautrec had killed Anastacia, then Seath abducted Rhea, then Nemeta had to delve into the catacombs...

_If Mistress wants more visitors, she shouldn't live in Blighttown._

Nemeta plotted out a route. From Firelink, she would descend to New Londo, and from there make her way to the Valley of Drakes. She would ride that massive wooden machine to the bottom of the Blighttown swamp, and then Nemeta could bombard her Mistress with all the new insults that she had devised since their last meeting.

Of course, the Witch of Izalith was next for Nemeta to confront. That was sure to be a tiresome conversation...

Nemeta teleported to Firelink. She needed a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the light. At last, she looked about, taking in the crumbling ruins, the overgrown weeds, the wide, open sky...and Anastacia.

"Hello!" said Nemeta, cheerily.

Anastacia yelped, and leapt to her feet. Apparently, the Fire Keeper of Firelink Shrine had been engrossed in the workings of an ant colony situated in the ground, and had been too absorbed in the tiny workers' comings and goings to notice Nemeta's arrival. "F-forgive me!" she whispered, bowing her head.

Nemeta tutted. "Ana, I have nothing to forgive you _for._ Sometimes I wonder if you're _capable_ of hurting other people..."

From the other end of the shrine came a massive, undignified snore. "Frampt is dozing as usual, hmmm?" Somehow, Nemeta realized, it would do Anastacia a world of good if she too could lose herself to slumber as easily.

"H-has my Lady just returned from the Catacombs?" she asked, meekly.

"Of course!" replied Nemeta, proudly. With a flourish, she revealed Nito's Lord Soul, burning brightly in her palm. Anastacia seemed gratifyingly impressed. "Only the Witch of Izalith left. That will be rather more tiresome..."

Anastacia cleared her throat as tactfully as she possibly could, and then creased her brow in pain as she tried to wring together sufficient courage to achieve what she wished to do next. Nemeta waited patiently as the words formed in her mouth.

"Frampt has told me of you," she began. "That you have agreed to link the Fire...I thank you, sincerely. Finally, the curse of the Undead can be lifted, and I can die human..."

"But you can't die yet!" squealed Nemeta. "Don't you know? I'm going to be the Queen of Sunlight! You wouldn't want to miss that, would you?"

Anastacia smiled nervously, and her entire body began to _sway_ strangely, tilting in the direction of her cell. If Nemeta had been any less self-obsessed, and more attuned to the moods of others, she would have realized at that moment that Anastacia had had _enough conversation for now, thank you very much,_ and wished to return to her privacy.

As it was, she kept on babbling.

"You will be my personal Fire Keeper, won't you, Ana? _Lady Anastacia!_ Yes, you'll be a member of my court, one of my _retinue,_ hee hee hee hee! You'll have quarters in my palace, won't that be splendid? Your own bathroom! Oh, but you won't be able to wear those rags around the palace. No, that would be rather..._inappropriate_, I fear. You'll have an entire wardrobe, full of beautiful costumes, dresses, hats, shoes, so big you'll get lost in it! And, I'll also give you your own special fashion advisor. Because, no offense in the world, but you don't strike me as one who is particularly knowledgeable about _style,_ Ana."

"You clueless imbecile."

Nemeta halted in mid-syllable, her mouth ajar, her face frozen in an expression of shocked confusion. Anastacia was no longer staring at the ground. She was gazing straight at her.

"Well, heavens, Ana, there's no need to be _rude..._"

"Is it not obvious – _screamingly, pathetically, obvious_ – how much I desire death?" Gone was the timidity. Gone was the hesitation. Anastacia's voice was now infused with anger, and hatred, and derangement. "Is it not _obvious_ how much I would love to simply crumble to dust _this – very – instant?_"

"I'm sorry," mumbled Nemeta. "I only want people to be happy..."

Anastacia's eye pushed out of its socket, and fell to the grass at her feet.

Nemeta's breathing began to quicken.

Where the eye had been, a squirming, churning mass of maggots.

The colour drained from Nemeta's face. "Ummm...ummm...you almost look Hollow, Ana..."

Anastacia skin took on a sickening pallor. She seemed to chew, for a moment, and then her tongue was pushed out of her mouth, and joined her eyeball in the dust.

"I prefer to remain human as much as possible..." murmured Nemeta, her voice almost too low to be heard.

Anastacia stepped forward, and seized hold of Nemeta. Their lips pressed together, and then Nemeta's mouth was full of crawling, scrabbling, slithering, scuttling...

()()()()()()()()()()

In the cloying, impenetrable darkness of the Tomb of the Giants, there was a horrified scream, and then frantic, bewildered breathing.

Nemeta needed a few minutes to regain her composure; for the beating of her heart to return to normal, for that twisted, profane parody of Anastacia to fade from her mind.

She rummaged about in the shadows, finally managing to seize hold of her Estus Flask. The marvellous stuff trickled down her throat, and then she wiped her mouth on her wrist.

"Is that all you have to offer, Nito?" she whispered. She wasn't sufficiently emboldened to roar her defiance to the shadows; it might attract the skeletons. "Is that the worst you can send me? Nightmares? Ha!"

Nemeta tried to make herself comfortable, and wondered if she would be able to return to sleep. "I'll show you," she said. "I'll show you."

()()()()()()()()()()

"An interesting little piece of trivia for you, Griggs," said Logan. "You are aware that Seath the Scaleless was not the most..._well-liked_ citizen of Anor Londo?"

"I can't imagine he was," said Griggs. "What with his having betrayed his kind, and all. People do not usually take kindly to a traitor, regardless of whether his betrayal was in their benefit."

"Yes, well, he had many enemies among the people of this land. For example, Seath writes very scathingly about 'Havel the Rock'. He was a bishop in the service of Lord Gwyn, you see, and so distrustful was he of his king's confidante, apparently, he devised elaborate measures to counter magic, if ever circumstances arose that Seath betray his liege."

"A pity Seath did _not_ betray Lord Gwyn," said Griggs. "He might have been slain centuries ago, and much suffering would have been averted."

"Mmmm," replied Logan, non-committal. "However! There was _one_ individual that Seath despised more than any other in all of Lordran. Can you guess who that was? Who did Seath fear more than any other? In his writings, who inspired Seath to expend more ink in expressing his hatred and dislike, than any other person in the land? Can you guess who this is?"

Judging by his Master's expectant expression, Griggs sensed, with a twinge of resentment, that he was being tested. "I am not particularly versed on the most prominent personalities of Lordran, Master," he said. "I do not know."

"Why, Nito, of course," said Logan. "Seath was _obsessed_ with the Gravelord, Griggs. He devoted page after page to detailing his suspicions about the King of the Dead. He was convinced that Nito was trying to find his way into the Archives, if you can believe. Many a time when Seath would work long into the night, all alone in his study, when, suddenly, a gust of wind would blow through, and all the candles would gutter and waver, and Seath would be gripped by this _unshakeable certainty_ that Nito was prowling about outside, trying to find a way in."

"He writes of bony fingers, scratching against the windows. He writes of sudden, startling noises in the middle of the night. He writes of skeletal faces, peering at him from the black gloom. It's such absurd imagery, is it not? Can you imagine! A massive dragon wandering through the darkened halls of his library, with a lamp in his claws, searching for a Gravelord hiding in the shadows!"

"Why on earth did Seath believe that _Nito_, of all people, had a vendetta against him?" said Griggs.

Logan shrugged. "Who can say? It's possible that Nito did not spare Seath a second thought, but Seath himself was _terrified_ of the First of the Dead. He gives no reasons. There are no explanations, just paranoia, and conspiracy. Here, let me read you a piece..."

Logan cleared his throat, and began to read:

"_'My suspicions I did express to Lord Gwyn, and his court. They found much to their amusement. 'Tales of the Gravelord be intended to frighten young children!' spoke Gwyn's fool son. 'Remarkable indeed that they doth frighten dragons, also!' The Firstborn's sycophants did convulse with laughter'._"

"_'Lord Gwyn hath assured me that the Gravelord remains always in his sepulchral realm, never venturing towards the sky, never setting foot in Anor Londo. But I know of his designs upon me. I know of how he plots, seated upon his throne in that lightless kingdom, his mind at work upon my demise'._"

"_'Each day, come dusk, the Princess of Sunlight, Gwynevere, doth retire to her chambers, and in her absence, the city of Anor Londo be enwreathed in darkness. As Gwynevere slumbers, the Gravelord doth steal into this city. As Gwynevere slumbers, Nito doth stalk these streets, the witless gods deaf and blind to his presence. I alone know of him. I alone know that he lingers in the shadows, his lifeless eyes upon my treasured Archive. I alone know that, when the morn comes and Gwynevere softly awakens, he is gone again, return'd to his tomb, return'd to his dead realm, to resumeth his scheming against me'._"

"_'He must not gain entry to my Archive. I must keep him at bay, whatever the cost. The Archives must be my fortress. I must bolt each door, and bar each window, and ensur-' – _argh!"

Logan howled in pain, putting a hand to his cheek. He chewed a moment, and smacked his lips, and then into his outstretched palm spat out a single, black, rotten, bloody molar.

"Well, fancy that," said Logan, gazing at the tooth. "My years of sugary treats have returned to haunt me."

Logan looked up.

Griggs was not there. Logan was sitting alone in that little library, Seath's book in his lap.

"Griggs?" he called out.

Nothing but the oppressive silence of the Archives.

Logan put the book aside, and pushed himself to his feet. Stepping gingerly over the various tomes he had left scattered over the floor, he treaded outside, and began to search the Archives.

It was the dead of night. _Princess Gwynevere has retired to her bed,_ Logan noted.

Something was wrong. The Archives were darker than they should normally be, at night. Had the others extinguished some of the lamps, for some reason?

As he explored, he could feel a tingle building in his nose. Fishing about in his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief just in time to release a massive sneeze. His eyes watering, Logan waited until his vision cleared, and then he saw: the handkerchief was covered in blackened blood.

There were tiny, grub-like creatures writhing about in the blood.

Crying in alarm, Logan allowed the handkerchief to fall to the ground. He began rushing through the halls and passages of the Archive, calling Griggs' name.

Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong. For the first time, Logan noticed the inexplicable _decrepitude_ of the place. The place was thick with a musty, stale odour. Pulling a book from a shelf, Logan noted the heavy film of dust, and the aged yellowing of the pages.

Whimpering anxiously, Logan brushed his fringe from his face. Entire clumps of hair came free with his fingers.

As Logan wandered, he became aware of the sound of rushing water. Arriving at last in the main hall of the Archive, Logan saw great gaps in the roof, torrents of rain pouring through, pools of water gathering on the carpets far below.

Logan coughed and wheezed. His mouth was swilling with blood. All of his teeth wobbled and came loose when he tested them with his tongue.

Staggering downstairs, Logan called out for Griggs, anyone. At the bottom, he stumbled to a corner, and beheld himself in a mirror. All the life had drained from his flesh, his lips blue, his skin sallow, his eyes black and opaque. Seizing the side of a table to steady himself, Logan's fingernails cracked, and broke off.

It was then that he saw him.

He lurked just in a corner of the mirror. An array of white, skeletal faces; a black cloak of tattered rags; glinting, pinprick eyes; a regal girth of skulls and ribcages and dangling bones. As Logan stared into the mirror, Nito loomed above him, and the entire Archive seemed to be enveloped in trickling, crawling blackness.

And then Logan woke with a start. He looked frantically about, his breathing heavy, his eyes wide with amazement, and then he realized that he had knocked over a candle, and was about to set fire to a pile of books.

()()()()()()()()()()

When Griggs next saw Logan, his skin was pale and sickly, and his eyes ringed with exhaustion.

"Master Logan, are you all right?" he asked, appalled. "Master, as your apprentice, I have a responsibility to ensure that you are giving proper consideration to your health! Are you resting properly? You cannot engage in research very effectively if you take no heed of your constitution!"

Logan's gaze darted about, and he seemingly could not bring himself to focus on anything. From the way his eyes bulged, Griggs got the impression that he was forcing himself, through some great exertion of will, to stay awake. When he spoke, Griggs had to stoop close to hear him. "Young Nemeta...where is she?"

"She left more than a week ago, Master Logan. She set off to the catacombs. To retrieve the Lord Soul from Gravelord Nito."

Some black, cloud-laden sky in Logan's mind seemed to brighten, ever-so-slightly. "Young Nemeta is going to confront Nito?" he asked. "She is going to _slay_ him?"

Griggs nodded. "Yes."

Logan seemed gratified by this. "Good. Good. It's probably for the best. It's probably for the best."

()()()()()()()()()()()

A strange man appeared at the entrance to the Archives. "Ho there!" shouted Laurentius, preparing to unleash his pyromancy. "Speak, and show me you're no Hollow!"

"There's nothing Hollow about me, my friend!" came the reply. As if to flaunt his trustworthiness, the newcomer bounded out into the centre of the hall, in clear view of Laurentius. "Name's Trusty Patches! I'm a jolly Undead! A humble merchant, to boot!"

"Fair enough," said Laurentius, relenting. "What business have you in the Archives?"

"Wellllll, I heard tell that these here Archives are the safest place for an Undead outcast to be. Safety being something that increases in numbers, apparently..."

Laurentius nodded. "You heard correctly, my friend. Yeah, you're welcome to stay, if you like."

"Smashing!" said Patches, clasping his hands together. Apparently, almost every word that left this man's mouth was to be accompanied by a theatrical flourish. "Saaaay, I've also heard rumours that this place is home to a very _special_ Undead..."

"Oh, right you are! Yeah, apparently Nemeta is going to replace Lord Gwyn as the new Lord of Cinder. She saved my life, once. I'm indebted to her..."

Patches' eyes narrowed. "Is this lass here at the moment?"

A straightforward man at the best of times, Laurentius wasn't normally given over to suspicion or paranoia, but in that instant he had the strangest notion that this man might be an assassin, or a spy. "Nemeta is not here at the moment," he said, mindful not to reveal too much. "She set off on business a few days ago. No idea when she'll be back."

"Oooh, a secret mission, yeah? I tell ya, royals and their intrigues, ey?" Patches tapped a knowing finger on his nose. "Oh well, I'll just get myself settled in. I look forward to meeting our soon-to-be new Lord of Cinder!"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," said Laurentius, as Patches sashayed past. "Oh, by the way, Patches: most of the people in this place are approachable enough, you'll have no problem with them. But there's this one individual...well, it's best not to bother him. He's a sorcerer, you see. Big Hat Logan. He's devoted himself to the study of these books, but...to be honest, I think this land has...you know...got the better of him."

Patches ventured into the Archives, and eventually found himself a nice, secluded corner in which to set up camp.

"I'm watching you, fox," came a voice from the shadows. "Do not even consider using your tricks on the innocent souls in these Archives."

Patches groaned deeply. "Have I not been punished enough?" he said, his arms stretching wide in entreaty.

"Careful," was the reply. "We wouldn't want any of your new neighbours to think you _talk to yourself,_ would we?"

Quelana withdrew deeper into the darkness, and found her own, far more inaccessible culvert in which to hide. Surrendering herself to the gloom and the quiet, she waited for the frustration seething within her to subside. Nemeta was not here, but there was no point in rushing back outside and desperately searching all of Lordran for her. Nemeta would make her way here in due time. All Quelana had to do was wait.

()()()()()()()()()()

The Tomb of the Giants was almost unimaginably vast, and progress downwards was slow, painstaking, and treacherous.

One wrong step was all it took. One wrong step in that thick, impregnable nothingness, and Nemeta would plunge into a yawning abyss. She would plummet and tumble through the black void, falling though the darkness for minutes on end, waiting for the sharp, abrupt impact, waiting for yet another Undead life to come to a sudden close.

Nemeta had a source of light, of course. The Skull Lantern, a magical artifact that not only would illuminate the way ahead, but lead her directly to her destination.

But light attracted the skeletons...

Gigantic, towering skeletons, with enormous iron swords that would crush her skull and shatter her bones with a single blow. Gigantic, towering skeletons with great bows, their projectiles soaring silently through the shadows. Once, Nemeta had been creeping her way through the gloom, when suddenly she was impaled by an arrow, and lay prone on the rocks for twenty minutes, waiting to bleed to death.

Worst of all, the skeletons that had seemingly lost every last remnant of their wits. They bounded about on their hands and knees, snapping and slavering, attempting to grasp hold of Nemeta in their jaws...

If Nemeta made use of the skull lantern, she risked attracting the attention of the tomb's inhabitants. And so she crept forward in the dark, inch by inch, feeling the way forward with hands and outstretched toes, fumbling blindly towards Nito.

Sometimes, she lost her bearings. Sometimes, she could not be sure if an endless abyss was stretching out before her. It was on these occasions that she was forced to use the lantern. She would ignite it for just a moment; long enough to regain her sense of direction. She would ignite it for just a moment, and when she did so, she hoped and prayed that its light would not fall upon a grinning, leering, skeletal visage.

Nemeta came to a decision: The Tomb of the Giants was _easily_ her least favourite place in all of Lordran.

That was her opinion. And, because she was destined to become Queen of Sunlight, it would soon become Royal Opinion, and hence more important than anything else.

She dearly hoped that Lost Izalith would prove less tedious...

()()()()()()()()()()()

_Corpses._

_Wriggling maggots crawling through rotting flesh._

_Cadavers mindlessly discharging their fluids and humours._

_Swarms of flies coming to rest upon putrefying meat._

_Larvae hatching, and bursting to life within festering wounds._

_Exposed bones. Twitching limbs. Veins running with pus._

_Is it any wonder at all that Seath chose to surround himself with crystals?_

_Is it any wonder that Seath could not allow a single speck of dirt to settle upon his cherished Archives?_

_Is it any mystery at all why Seath commanded an army of servants to clean every inch of his lair, to obsessively polish every wooden surface, to prevent a single mote of dust from befouling his books?_

_Is it any mystery at all why Seath was eventually driven from his own keep?_

_Is it any secret at all why Seath could no longer bear to surround himself with filthy, pestilent, poisonous **life?**_

_Is it any secret at all why Seath retreated to his crystal forest?_

_Is it any wonder that Seath sought to create for himself an environment that would remain forever pure, forever pristine, forever untainted, forever perfect?_

_Is it any wonder that Seath sought to create for himself a haven from death, from disease, from the destruction and despoilment of beauty?_

More and more, Logan developed the habit of exploding with anger. He would suddenly appear, red-faced and bellowing. "Who is caring for these Archives? The books must be dusted! The carpets must be cleaned, the tables and chairs polished! Who is responsible for this? This, this wanton _neglect!"_

Griggs sighed deeply; his Master's temper had become impossible to predict. "Master, there are _six_ of us! Seven, if you count our new guest, and I can't imagine he would appreciate having cleaning duties sprung upon him. We have far more important matters to attend to than housekeeping!"

()()()()()()()()()()

Ahead, Nemeta could hear the clanking of armour. Not long after, she could see the faint, bobbing light of an approaching lantern.

Evidently, someone in the Tomb of the Giants did not share Nemeta's zeal for caution. She tried to conceal herself in the nearest crevice, but it did not hide her well enough. The light from the lantern fell upon her, and the stranger studied her a moment.

"Oh, hello," came the familiar voice. "Fate seems determined for us both to cross each others' paths, again and again, wouldn't you agree?"

"Solaire?" said Nemeta, squinting to see him the better. "What are you doing here?"

"In the great Tomb of the Gravelord? I'm glad you asked! Not long after we last parted ways, I confess I was at a loss as to where my much sought-after sun could be found. Suddenly, inspiration struck, as would a particularly enlightening bolt of lightning from the sky! Where else could the sun be, but where it is needed most? Where else could one find hope, but where it is least expected?"

He seemed so thrilled that he had found someone with which to share his epiphany. "You think your sun is in the darkest place in Lordran?" said Nemeta, said darkness obscuring her raised eyebrow.

"Indeed! What better use for the sun than to banish the darkness?"

_That makes a sort of sense,_ thought Nemeta. _However, as the soon-to-be Queen of Sunlight, may I just state that this is __**not**__ my natural setting._

"While you're here," said Nemeta, "mmm, do you think you could help me slay the Gravelord?"

Solaire put a fist to his shoulder. "As a servant of Lord Gwyn, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to fight at the side of his brave, virtuous heir."

Nemeta beamed. The Tomb of the Giants suddenly seemed a lot less forbidding. With her trusty Solaire of Astora, Nemeta would storm Nito's crypt, and obliterate him.

Solaire began to cough and gurgle, and Nemeta cursed herself for being so gullible, so easily deceived. As Solaire fell to his knees, gagging and choking, trickles of blood falling from his visor onto the rocks, Nemeta shut her eyes tightly, and tried to wake.

()()()()()()()()()()

In Nemeta's dreams, her Mistress invited her to reach her hand out, and push her cowl away. Quelana's skin was all gone, replaced by desiccated silk, large black spiders with bulging red abdomens crawling in and out of her mouth and eye cavities.

In Nemeta's dreams, her mother and father and brothers were all Undead, and all lashed to posts, positioned far apart. Bizarre creatures, with the heads and wings of ravens and the bodies of human beings, descended from the skies, pecking at their eyes and tongues as they screamed and struggled. Nemeta raced about the snow-covered field, shouting and waving her arms, trying to frighten away the monsters, but each time she protected one member of her family, the raven-things set upon the others.

In Nemeta's dreams, Quelana and Rhea and Sieglinde and Laurentius and Solaire and Andrei were all Hollow, all trapped in a pit filled with a roiling, tumbling mass of maggots. They struggled, and slashed, and clawed, and swiped, snarling mindlessly at one another as they were devoured.

When, at long last, Nemeta shambled into Nito's inner sanctum, her instincts were dulled, and her limbs were weighted with lead. The rush of battle joined quickly seeped away, and Nemeta found it taxing even to run and maneuver. As though intending one final, parting insult, Nito fought in an unmistakeably _leisurely_ manner, sweeping unhurriedly around the chamber, taking long, measured swings with his great Gravesword that, had she been fully rested, Nemeta would easily have been able to evade.

Nemeta loosed all of her most powerful spells; the pyromancies that Quelana had imparted to her, and the potent sorceries that Logan had passed to Griggs. Finally, to Nemeta's pathetically grateful relief, Nito fell to her assault. His immense bulk crashed into the water that pooled on the ground, and disintegrated to nothing, his Lord Soul glowing where he had once stood.

If Nemeta's wits had been any less frayed, perhaps she would have made a quip about never provoking a sleep-deprived pyromancer. But no witticisms came to her, no clever little remarks. She took possession of the Lord Soul, and teleported out of the crypt.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

The bonfire guttered and swelled, and Nemeta materialized in the flames. She grimaced, and waited for her eyes to adapt to the light.

Firelink Shrine was as she left it.

The Tomb of the Giants was behind her. No more interminable, unpitying darkness; no more ravenous eyes following her as she blundered through the shadows; no more laughing, cadaverous faces melting out of the gloom; no more bony fingers reaching hungrily for her. Just the trembling of her hands, and the rattling, clutching unsteadiness of her breath, and the ghastly, stomach-churning imagery waiting for her each time she closed her eyes.

Seizing two handfuls of her tunic and clutching them to her chest, Nemeta began shuffling her way out of Firelink. As she trudged down the stairs towards New Londo, the Fire Keeper, Anastacia, summoned every ounce of strength and bravery in her being, and uttered a single, faint word.

"Hello," she said.

Nemeta did not hear her. She disappeared from view, and Anastacia bowed her head, her brow furrowing in anguish. _How conceited of her, how selfish_, to think that the Chosen Undead would want to speak with such a feeble, contemptible little beggar as she.

()()()()()()()()()

Down to New Londo, and from there to the Valley of Drakes.

Nemeta wondered how many weeks she had been in the Tomb of the Giants. When you spend long enough immersed in absolute, unyielding darkness, time begins to lose all meaning.

Nito had not destroyed Nemeta. Nor had he _quite_ destroyed the little girl that still existed within Nemeta, though he had done lasting, irreparable damage.

The little girl was still there, and though Nemeta would _never, ever_ be able to acknowledge it, the little girl now wished to crawl into Quelana's lap, and cry and snivel while the witch stroked her hair, and whispered comforting banalities in her ear.

Through the Valley of Drakes, and across to the gigantic wooden contraption that bore its passengers to the bowels of Blighttown. Reaching the bottom, Nemeta plodded her way across the mire, to the base of one of the enormous buttresses that kept the city above from collapsing into the gorge. There was a little patch of land here, where Mistress could usually be found, and as she drew near, Nemeta escaped her melancholy for a moment, and became filled with an irrepressible, childish excitement.

Quelana was not there.

Nemeta searched around the sides of the buttress. Quelana was nowhere to be seen.

Nemeta investigated the region at the entrance to Queelag's silken domain. She examined the area around the roots of the Great Hollow. She searched near the great drain that deposited the effluence of Lordran into the marsh. Quelana was not there.

Nemeta walked the length and breadth of the swamp, calling out her mistress' name, not caring what vile, misshapen creatures her cries attracted. Quelana did not answer.

Nemeta was not worried. She was too young, and too immature to worry. Nemeta was _angry_. Nemeta felt sorry for herself. Nemeta began to fill with the impetuous rage that came whenever a spoiled young girl didn't get what she wanted for her birthday, or whenever a socialite was upstaged by a prettier dress at a ball.

_She was meant to be here!_

_I did my part. I killed Nito, and I took his soul. I killed Seath, and I took his soul, too! I did my part of the bargain! So why isn't she here? The least she could do was be here! All I wanted was for her to be here for me! All I wanted was for her to listen to me!_

Nemeta did not realize that her fists were clenched. Nemeta did not realize that she was breathing heavily, forcing the air through her nose in graceless, inelegant snorts.

Nemeta stood in the middle of the swamp, the walls of the gorge towering above her, the poisons in the sludge seeping through the leather of her boots. She took a deep breath, and began to scream.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Chapter 9**

**The flames leaped and billowed, and Nemeta appeared in Anor Londo.**

**She looked about. The Lady of the Darkling, the Fire Keeper of Anor Londo, was nowhere to be seen, her bonfire abandoned and unguarded. But what did it matter? Nemeta was too exhausted to care.**

**If the sorcerers of Vinheim could see Nemeta now – could see the way she slung her catalyst thoughtlessly over her shoulder – they would have shook their heads, and tsk-ed and tutted, remarking upon how that slovenly girl did not treat her instrument with the proper care and respect it deserved. Nemeta trudged dejectedly through the streets of the city, in the direction of the Archives. She wanted to sleep for a week. She wanted to feast on lemon cakes until her stomach was so full and her blood so thick with sugar that she could not do anything.**

**Her gaze was fixed upon the ground, and so Nemeta did not see the massive plume of smoke rising from the point where the Archives stood. Only dimly did she apprehend the sound of crashing, and crumbling. **

**At last, Nemeta rounded a particular corner, and raised her chin. She laid eyes upon the Regal Archives, and halted dead in her tracks.**

**The great edifice was wreathed in flames. Windows exploded with the heat, and, within, Nemeta could catch glimpses of a furious, implacable inferno. Here and there, the roof was collapsing, tumbling into the fires in bits and pieces.**

**Seath's books were being consumed.**

()()()()()()()()()()

Patches the Hyena was born with _just_ enough intelligence to appreciate _just_ how stupid he really was.

Patches knew that there were human beings who could use other human beings as though they were pieces on a chessboard. Patches knew that there were men who could persuade other men to hand over fortunes in gold and treasure, using nothing more than empty promises and beguiling lies. He knew that there were politicians who could convince entire nations to go to war, using nothing more than threats and half-truths. He knew that there were clerics who could compel their flock to persecute entire peoples, using nothing more than fairy tales and ghost stories.

And then there were men like Patches, who kicked people down holes.

Trapped now, in the Regal Archives, Trusty Patches was forced to confront the fact that he was _not_ the most fiendish, diabolical puppet master that ever lived.

There were six other people in the Archives – a scruffy pyromancer, a squeaky-voiced knight with a peculiar helmet, a decaying old relic, two sorcerers, and, of course, Quelana of Izalith, the witch that had cruelly, unjustly enslaved him.

If Patches were any sharper, he might have been able to turn this to his advantage. If he were any more manipulative, he may have been able to turn the various Undead against one another.

Take that dishevelled pyromancer, Laurentius of the Great Swamp, for example. Patches knew that, if he were a bit more shrewd, he could have convinced Laurentius that Griggs, the stuffy sorcerer, looked down upon him – thought he was a bit of a savage, you catch my drift? All Patches would have needed to do was whisper in a few ears, stoke a few suspicions, plant a bit of paranoia, and 'ol Laurentius and Griggs would be at each others throats. Nyahahahaha!

But Patches wasn't that clever. He kicked people down holes. No grand manipulator, he.

So it was that, when Patches approached Laurentius on the rooftop of the Archives one afternoon, he did so not with treachery or skulduggery in mind. He did so because he knew that Quelana had him under her thumb, and that he would not be extricating himself from this situation any time soon. Patches went to talk with Laurentius because he was bored, and lonely.

"Here, what's going on with that old sorcerer fellow? I've never caught sight of him." Patches frowned skeptically. "Does he even _exist?"_

Laurentius chuckled good-naturedly. "What, old Big Hat? Yeah, Logan exists, all right. I actually enjoyed the good pleasure of his company for a few months, when we all stayed in Firelink. I never see him, now, though. Never leaves his books." Laurentius affected an expression of mock hurt. "He doesn't want to talk to me any more."

Patches raised a cautious eyebrow. "Do you reckon he's going Hollow?"

"Who knows? It won't be the first time I've seen someone lose themselves in this land. Even renowned souls like Big Hat Logan can crack and go Hollow."

The pair sat side-by-side, quietly gazing out across the cityscape below. In the skies, high above, the brilliant sun blazed down upon Anor Londo, Gwynevere's rays of light grazing a panoply of palaces, cathedrals, temples, libraries, towers, galleries and shrines, the work of the greatest architects the world had ever known.

Patches spoke: "He could be Hollow now, for all we know."

Laurentius nodded, a faraway look in his eyes."True, true."

Patches continued the thought: "He could be Hollow, and the only reason we don't know is because his apprentice...what's his name..."

"Griggs."

"...Griggs...hasn't told us. He's chained old Logan to a shelf, by his ankles, so he can't get away."

"Yeah, yeah," said Laurentius. "And when night comes, and we're all asleep, he sneaks about the Archives, feeding Logan sprites."

"Oooh!" said Patches, scandalized. "We'd better be careful. Next thing you know, he'll be cutting our throats, and feeding _our_ sprites to his Master!"

"Yeah, yeah," said Laurentius, insouciantly. "And then when we're all dead, and Logan's snarling and snapping at him, he'll lay his head in Logan's lap and cry, because his Master's Hollow."

Another moment passed in silence. Down below, the shadow of a cloud slithered across the rooftops.

"Bloody sorcerers," said Patches.

"I know, I know."

()()()()()()()()()()()()

A red-robed figure shuffled around the corner, and Griggs flashed his most winning, eager-to-please smile. "Master Ingward!" he said. "How are you?"

"Hello, young man!" Using his staff to steady his gait, Ingward hobbled up to the table at which Griggs was seated. "I am as well as a withered old man can be. How fares your master?"

"Master Logan is well," said Griggs. "He is hard at work upon Seath's research."

"Indeed, I seldom catch sight of the man. Ah, young Master, forgive the imposition of an old fossil, but...the thing is, I spent many years keeping watch over the ruins of New Londo...all alone in the darkness, with the ghosts...you see, it rather fills me with misgivings when I see a person so wilfully neglecting the sun..."

"Master Logan will come to no harm," said Griggs. "I can assure you."

Ingward smiled kindly, and turned away, and as he left, Ingward could dimly hear him muttering something about young men's bones being ground beneath the wheels of old people.

()()()()()()()()()()

The days went by, and the Undead joked and gossiped about Big Hat Logan.

Naturally, they knew that it was rude to tattle about the sorcerer when he was not there to defend himself, but, really, what else was there to talk about?

They weren't in the humour to talk about Nemeta. Not until she had returned from Nito's domain. Not until she was safely back among their number.

Ironically, while the Undead made their snide little remarks about Logan, another of their group was proving just as reclusive and unsociable as the increasingly-unhinged old sorcerer, and yet her absence went almost entirely unnoticed. Perhaps the reason was because her seclusion was not _nearly_ as ridiculous and belligerent.

Sieglinde spent long hours each day in the remotest, most far-flung region of the Archives that she could find. She did not come here so that she could concentrate on academic study. She did not come here for peace and quiet.

Sieglinde had slain her own father. She often hadn't the temper to face the others.

Sieglinde knew that there wasn't _really_ any reason for her to stay any longer in Lordran. However, as a noble of the court of Catarina, she felt that she had a _knightly_ _obligation_ to remain. Soon, a new Queen of Sunlight would be crowned, and diplomatic considerations dictated that a representative of Catarina be present to witness the coronation. Her father may have been put to rest, but her duty to her king forbade her from leaving just yet.

Heavens, but Sieglinde was grateful that Anor Londo was so thoroughly, meticulously _clean!_ The rest of Lordrean had certainly not agreed with her; Sieglinde was tired of sleeping in the grass, tired of the mud sucking at her boots. Even as she mourned her father, she was thankful that she had somewhere _civilized_ to stay while she waited for Nemeta to claim her throne.

Each night, Gwynevere, the Princess of Sunlight, retired to her bedchambers, and the black night settled upon Anor Londo. The Archives became completely dark, and a stifling quiet descended, pervading each corridor and passageway, filling the space between each bookcase.

On the final night in the Archives, the dark came as normal, and Sieglinde prepared her pallet. She laid down on the floor, and waited for sleep to come.

()()()()()()()()()()

Sieglinde slept, and dreamt that she had returned to the shores of Ash Lake.

How clearly she remembered the lifeless waters.

How vividly she could imagine the terrifying immensity of the place, and the deathly silence.

In her dreams of Ash Lake, Sieglinde wandered the lonely beaches, and crossed the white dunes. In her dreams, she neared the crest of a tall ridge, and wondered what she would find beyond.

She clambered to the top, and looked down. Her father was scrabbling up the other side, reaching for her.

()()()()()()()()()()

Siegmeyer's voice gibbered and giggled and howled, and Sieglinde knew that a thousand happy, cherished memories had become tainted and besmirched.

Siegmeyer's eyes seeped with perverse, degenerate lust, and Sieglinde knew that her childhood had somehow been poisoned, corrupted.

Siegmeyer reached out with hungry, searching hands, and Sieglinde drew her sword, tears streaming down her cheeks.

And then she screamed.

()()()()()()()()()()

The scream wound its way through the Archives. It drifted and floated, past the shelves, through the halls, down the steps, underneath the doors, travelling all the way to the ear of Big Hat Logan.

Logan's eyes flicked from the words in his lap, and for the first time in more than a month, his focus was broken. He was alone in his little den, nothing for company but a half-melted candle, its orange light cast upon the countless stacks of tomes that had accumulated around him.

Bewildered, Logan peered into the darkness. What was that noise? Normally, Logan would be _enraged_ that his concentration has been disrupted, but for some reason, this little disturbance did not bother him at all. He was not irritated, he was_...intrigued._

Logan waited, and listened. Moments passed, and then his patience was rewarded. Another scream. Though the sound was distorted and warped by the distance, and the countless corners and obstacles that it had to pass, he could clearly hear a human crying out.

Logan pushed himself off the floor, gnashing his teeth as his knees and spine cracked and popped. Looping a finger around the handle of the candle holder, he set off to investigate.

()()()()()()()()()()

Sieglinde dreamed that her father seized hold of her. They tumbled together down the ashen dune, ravenous hands clutching...

Sieglinde screamed, and Logan followed the noise. It was a woman, he could tell. Nemeta? No...

Sieglinde dreamed that her father's helmet came loose. She saw how his eyes had become dried and opaque. She saw how the skin had sunk into the skull, how the lips had drawn away from the teeth.

She screamed, and never had an inkling that a hunched figure was creeping through the archives, a candle outstretched, drawing closer and closer.

At last, he found her.

Sieglinde had taken refuge in a cramped reading room, deep within the bowels of Seath's keep. She was sprawled now across the floor, bedsheets and pillows twisted and tangled about her. Off to the side, her armour was neatly arrayed against a wall, her helmet losing none of its character, despite the fact that no head was in it.

Logan saw that Sieglinde's faithful broadsword lay alongside her. Clamping a hand to his mouth, he forced a chortle back down his throat. _Oh, such trouble there'll be, if she catches me!_ He looked around. _No. No. She'll never catch me._

Logan tiptoed behind a bookshelf, and smothered his candle. The goopy darkness swallowed him whole, and Logan peered through the gaps between the books, gazing at Sieglinde's sleeping form.

It seemed young Sieglinde was in the grip of nightmares. Her head whipped and darted about, tightly-shut eyes straining to see imaginary phantoms and apparitions. She thrashed and struggled, slashing and clawing at the insubstantial shadows. She babbled and stammered, and Logan had no hope of ever understanding her words.

_How beautiful women are, when they're terrified._

The thought entered Logan's mind, unbidden, and it seemed so natural, so self-explanatory, that he did not once doubt that it was his own.

_Are women ever more entrancing than when they plead with fearful, beseeching eyes?_

_Is the female form ever more intoxicating than when prostrate before you, vulnerable, helpless?_

_Is there anything more sublime in this world than the terror of women; their tears, their screams, their hysterics?_

_Is there ever a time when the exquisiteness of woman is more apparent than when she is half-mad with dread, and all her passions and emotions take full flight?_

In the spaces between the books, Sieglinde writhed and squirmed, and Logan drank in the sight of her.

_See how she cowers! How she performs for me!_

_Decades, decades I have devoted to the study of sorcery! My entire life, I have dedicated to the furtherance of our understanding of magic! Oh, it was worth it...the benefits magic has brought humankind...and yet...and yet..._

_The sacrifices I have made!_

_The pleasures I have denied myself, for so long!_

_The temptations I have suppressed, all my life, though they gnawed at my mind, distracting me, tormenting me!_

_If I were to perish this moment – this very moment – would I be satisfied?_

_Have I lived life to its fullest?_

_Remember, Logan, the countless nights you spent in your study, nothing but books and papers for companionship?_

_Remember, Logan, all the fantasies that you refused to indulge, though they constantly tormented and vexed you?_

_Remember, Logan, the appetites and sensations that went neglected, the desires that went unanswered?_

In the cracks between the books, Sieglinde wriggled and shrieked and cried, Logan's heart beating faster and faster, his blood rushing quicker and quicker.

_No more. No more._

_I will __**gorge**__ myself upon this world._

_I will immerse myself in all the carnal delights that womankind has to offer._

_I will surround myself with that succulent, delectable flesh._

In the gaps between the books, Sieglinde battled invisible tormentors, and roared and bellowed at nothing. Logan's thick lips twisted into a smile.

_Look at the little lamb. So frightened. So confused._

_Surely she would welcome comfort?_

_Surely she would welcome some strong, powerful man to come forth, to take her in her arms, and comfort her?_

_Perhaps I should take on the task myself?_

Yet again, a filthy, guttural laugh built in Logan's belly, and he had to force it down, lest he be discovered.

_Perhaps I should reveal myself._

_Perhaps I should lay myself down, and take her trembling shape into my arms._

_Perhaps I should whisper soothing comforts in her ear, and hush her crying._

_Perhaps I should claim a little kiss for myself._

_Did not the god Morphos seduce the maiden Sortoria, as she lay in the embrace of sleep, hmmm?_

_Would young Sieglinde not be grateful for the solace I could offer her?_

Lurking in the darkness, Logan prepared to step forward. _She is so far from the others, _he thought. _They will never know. They will never know._

Logan took a deep breath, and prepared to leave his hiding-place.

And then Nito stepped from the shadows.

Tattered, black rags hanging from his bony shoulders, a mountain of skeletons swaying and shifting as he moved, the hulking enormity of the Gravelord strode from the black nothingness, looming over Sieglinde as she convulsed and whimpered at his feet. His eyes bulging, Logan pressed his fists into his mouth, and did not notice when the teeth sank into the skin. A scream swelled and buffeted in his chest, threatening to push his ribcage apart, but Logan knew that he must remain silent, that his very life depended upon it.

Sieglinde tossed and turned in her fever-dream, and as Logan watched, petrified, Nito knelt at her side.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Quelana knelt at Sieglinde's side, and examined the young girl.

She had been drawn here by the sound of screams. Half-expecting to find an unfortunate Undead being dragged away by slavering Hollows, Quelana instead found this Knight of Catarina, in the throes of a nightmare.

Quelana was torn. On the one hand, this _really_ was none of her business. This soul was in all probability scarred by her experiences in Lordran, and could well expect to endure frightening dreams for many years to come. It was not Quelana's place to protect her, or to mother her.

On the other hand, Quelana dearly wished to return to sleep.

She came to a decision. She crouched next to the girl's head, and flattened her palm. Her flame jumped to life in her hand.

()()()()()()()()()()

It did not matter that Sieglinde was asleep.

It did not matter that her eyes were squeezed closed.

In her mind, Sieglinde saw Quelana's flame – and Nemeta's flame, and Salaman's. Three strange fires, burning in a dark void.

The memories of her father dwindled to nothing. The memories of Ash Lake faded away.

"Sssh," said Quelana, as peace washed over Sieglinde's face.

()()()()()()()()()()

Quelana could not make Sieglinde forget her father, of course. She would wake in the morning, and remember everything. But at least the terrors had been banished for a night.

Quelana rose from her haunches, and looked about. She made a quick search of the reading room – she would feel _terribly_ foolish if a Hollow was hiding there, and carried Sieglinde away when she was gone.

But there was nothing. Quelana returned to her hidden alcove, and fell back into slumber.

()()()()()()()()()()()

_He shows himself._

_At last, he shows himself._

Logan staggered through the Archives, steadying himself on walls and shelves as he went. Here and there along the way, the occasional noisy disaster: a large wooden globe sent tumbling from a table, a bronze sundial clattering loudly on the floor. Logan did not notice that he was single-handedly demolishing Seath's lair; he stumbled obliviously onwards, his eyes wide and haunted, his face a ghastly white.

_I will never be rid of him._

_I will never be free of his trickery, his mockery, his, his..._

_Oh, heavens, must the sight of him __**blight me so?**_

_He, he will not be satisfied until I fear to turn every individual corner, until I live in dread of the horrors I may find!_

_He will not be happy until each tree branch knocking against glass, each creaking plank of wood, each rat scurrying beneath the floor, causes the most repulsive spectres to spawn in my mind!_

_He will not be content until I live in abject, miserable horror of every shadow in the world._

_Damn you! Damn you, Nemeta of Vinheim! It was your duty to destroy him!_

Gulping at the air, his skin slick with sweat, Logan blundered his way out of the Archives, into the crisp chill of night. He shambled in haste through trees and bushes, and then the ground began to slope downwards, and the mud and grass beneath his feet was gradually replaced by the hardened texture of crystal.

_Always, he will torment me._

_Always, skeletal fingertips scratching against the window!_

_Always, his gruesome visage looming over me as I sleep!_

_Always, Nito on his throne in the Tomb of the Giants, devising new means of deranging me!_

Immense spikes and spires of crystal rose into the air, towering above Logan's head, and he ventured into Seath's cavern. He lurched down rough-hewn pathways, across invisible bridges, over gaping chasms, ranting and hissing each step of the way.

_I will destroy him._

_I will imprison him forever in a crystal sarcophagus._

_Let Nito spend eternity yearning for the death that he visited upon this wretched human race! _

At the very heart of the crystal cavern, Logan tottered falteringly to the edge of an outcrop, a deep abyss stretching out beneath his feet. His face contorting with a frenzied smile, he shed his robes, and stretched his arms wide.

A wind came to life in the cave. Weak at first, it grew stronger and stronger, an eerie howl winding through the chambers, becoming steadily louder. As the wind blew, hundreds upon thousands of tiny crystal flakes were plucked from the ground and borne through the air, swirling and whirling through that massive place. The crystal fragments settled on Logan's pale, corpulent flesh, and an expression of ecstasy came upon him as his skin began to freeze and harden.

All throughout the cavern, massive shapes were stirring. When Seath died, his enormous crystal servants became sluggish and torpid; now, however, the cave was beginning to swarm with activity. The golems stomped slowly along the paths and bridges, silently answering their summons.

Strange, that such beautiful things as crystals be carved into such brutish, thuggish shapes.

At last, Logan's transformation was complete, large patches of his body infested with icy, shining clusters, his hat fused permanently to his head. He turned around, and below him, an army of crystal golems stood waiting.

()()()()()()()()()()

_They'll all be sleeping soundly beneath their blankets. They do not suspect a thing! My crystal behemoths will gather their little sleeping heads in their massive crystal fists, and crush their skulls with a single squeeze! They'll never know! They'll never know!_

Lumbering servants at his heel, Logan stalked up the hill, back in the direction of the Archives.

_That primitive pyromancer – vanquished! That prattling antique – crushed to dust! The Knight of Catarina...mmmmph...I'll squirrel her away, safe and sound. Oh, such delicious nightmares she will have, when she sees what becomes of her friends!_

_Oh, but young Sieglinde is only the secondary prize..._

_Nemeta...you should be coming home, soon...the Archives will have changed, in your absence...I'll be waiting to welcome you with a warm embrace..._

As he neared the entrance, however, Logan became aware of a rather bothersome tactical disadvantage. In all the weeks that he had lived in the Archives, Logan had never once shown the slightest interest in the lives of his fellow Undead. He did not know of their comings or goings, or their routines, or their plans. Logan had rarely set foot outside of his improvised study; the trouble was, he now intended to ambush them, but he had no clue where any of them slept, nor where they could be found.

_No matter. These are my Archives, my domain! I have the advantage here! My servants will rush through the place, and overwhelm the intruders. I still have the advantage of surprise._

At the doorway, Logan turned to the giants massing behind them. "There's no hope of you fellows remaining stealthy. Just be swift, and fill the passages and halls as quickly – "

"BWAWK! BWAWK! Nasty! Nasty! Snuggly...scared! Wakey wakey! Wakey wakey!"

Far above, Firelink's enormous raven hopped and fluttered about on the roofs of the Archive, scratching loudly with her talons upon the tiles, screeching fit to wake Anor Londo itself.

"Crushy crystal! Crushy! And...magic man! Magic man! Bwawk! Wakey wakey!"

Logan snarled, a scalding tide of fury bringing with it the revelation that there was a creature in Lordran that he despised more than Nito. He fired volley after volley of glowing projectiles from his catalyst, but the raven glided hurriedly out of sight.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Laurentius was the first to know that something was wrong. The only individual that was awake at the time, he was keeping guard at the main entrance, away at the opposite end of the Archives. His focus was on his pyromancy flame, his attention fixed upon the bewitching glow, when suddenly he heard the raven's frantic warnings.

Bolting to his feet, he ran to investigate.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Sieglinde wondered if she had dreamt of a startling commotion on the roof of the Archives.

So hard to tell reality apart from a muddle of nightmares.

She lay on her side, waiting. A minute later, heavy stomping noises began to reverberate around the building. Sieglinde grabbed hold of her sword, and scrambled across the floor to her armour.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Hours before, Ingward had nodded off in a chair. The raven woke him, but he remained seated, thinking all was well. The gigantic golems began tramping through the Archives...but Ingward was partially deaf, and assumed it was one of the other Undead.

Then came the din of crashing wood and scattered stones, and Ingward reached for his catalyst.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Laurentius raced into the west atrium, and skidded to a halt, the carpet bunching under his feet. Twelve crystal golems were shambling towards him.

He took refuge in the passage between two of Seath's massive bookshelves, reasoning that the space was too cramped for the golems to follow. Of course, the golems were strong enough to push the shelves over. Four huge bookshelves toppled over like dominoes, Laurentius dropping to the floor to avoid being crushed to death, a shower of the Duke's accursed books cascading upon him as he went.

"Curse the heavens!" he exclaimed. On his belly now, in the narrow space where one bookshelf lay at an angle to another, he began crawling towards the way out. The golems clambered upon the fallen bookshelves, the wood crunching beneath their prodigious weight, and began blindly smashing their great fists through the boards, attempting to flatten their adversary.

Brushing piles of books aside, Laurentius wiggled his way out from the shelves, and brought himself to bear on his foes, his flame burning in his fist.

()()()()()()()()()()

Emerging in the east atrium, Sieglinde was swiftly set upon by the golems – the same creatures that had imprisoned her, months ago.

But Nemeta was not here to save her, now.

To her chagrin, Sieglinde discovered that the iron of her broadsword had little effect upon the golems' crystalline hide – though, luckily, the divine enchantment that Andrei had worked into the blade caused some damage. It was not enough, however, to dispel the encroaching press of her enemies. Forced backwards, Sieglinde was driven up a staircase.

Sieglinde wondered: _What are we to do in the event that the Archives are attacked?_

_Where do we rally?_

_Who decides upon a course of action?_

The golems pushed Sieglinde further and further upwards, she conceding ground step by step. At least, in the Archives, there was plenty of room to beat a tactical retreat.

()()()()()()()()()()

Ingward alighted upon a landing, three flights of stairs above the ground. Peering over the parapet, he saw the chaos unfolding below.

Laurentius was engaged in battle with a horde of crystal giants. As he fought, more of the colossal creatures swarmed up the stairs, filling up the entire chamber. The fiends were entering from the direction of the crystal caves; an endless torrent of them plodding through the entranceway.

Ingward took aim, and fired several bolts of magic at the golems. It did not please him to find that the beasts possessed a formidable resistance to sorcery.

To his side, there came a disconcerting creaking noise. Ingward turned his head, and saw that the creatures had reached his floor.

()()()()()()()()()()()

The moment Griggs understood that things were amiss, he rushed directly to Master Logan's study room. If anything could rouse the curmudgeon from his reading, it was the peril of an abrupt invasion.

Whether he was willing to leave his books, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter...

Logan was nowhere to be found. The room was empty; no venerable sorcerer, just mounds of leather-bound tomes strewn about in an order which only he understood.

A succession of horrifying scenarios flitted through Griggs' mind, and then he set off running through the Archives, calling Logan's name.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

There was a sickening crackle, and then a golem fell through the staircase on which it precariously stood. A few moments passed, and then an almighty explosion, several tons of crystal coming to rest upon whatever was unfortunate enough to be underneath it.

Sieglinde gazed in horror at the gaping hole in the steps just beneath her. Gingerly leaning forward, she peered down through the splintered hole: hundreds of feet below, a massive cloud of dust was spreading across the hall, the colossus struggling to regain its feet amid a pile of obliterated furniture.

The golems that had being queuing behind, waiting patiently for their turn to fight, now could not reach her. The expressionless automatons turned around, and began searching for an alternative route. At least the mishap had granted Sieglinde a few moments' rest.

Lowering the tip of her sword, Sieglinde looked about. Across the atrium, at the opposite side, she could see jets of magic flying about; Ingward, attempting to defend himself. Sieglinde doubted he was having much more success than she.

_How could we all be so blind?_

_Did we never imagine that something like this would happen? Why did we not decide on a place where we would all muster, in case we were attacked? Why did we not discuss these things?_

_I am a Knight of Catarina! I should have known!_

_This...this is the reason that Rhea of Thorolund perished._

_We were all so caught up in our own little problems, that we never took the time to think of our friends and allies._

_Could we be so foolish? What was so important that we could not see what was so __**obvious**__?_

In the corner of her visor, Sieglinde caught a throng of golems marching around the corner. She raised her sword once more, and ruefully bit her lip as she realized it was becoming heavier.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

When the golem caught hold of him, Ingward knew that it was important to make the most of the time that he had left.

_At least I saw my duty through to the end,_ he thought. _I do not begrudge the other two their decision to leave...but the Seal had to be protected. The Darkwraiths had to be contained. It pleases me, the suffering that was averted._

The golem hefted Ingward above its shoulders, and tossed him over the railing. Ingward plunged towards the distant floor, smashing against a bookcase as he fell. He struck the ground with an audible crack, and was still.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Eventually, Laurentius' pyromancy exhausted itself. He soon found himself with his back to a bookshelf, and half a dozen golems bearing down upon him.

_I don't think these creatures have mouths._

_Well, at least they won't eat me for supper._

_Hah hah hah hah!_

_See! I'm smiling!_

_This time, at least, it doesn't seem like I'll have time to become afraid._

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Even Griggs had his limits.

Griggs carried Logan's luggage. He hunted his meals, and cooked them. He washed his clothes. He prepared his lectures. He assessed his students' dissertations. He endured Logan's constant complaining and quibbling. He shielded Logan from all the people that he offended.

Griggs endured much for his Master's sake. However, when Griggs discovered Logan in a massive theatre, completely naked but for his hat, part of him realized that he had endured _enough_.

There would be no more humiliation. No more kowtowing or sycophancy. It was time for the apprentice to _stand up_ to the teacher.

Then the horror of the situation returned to him. The brief indignation passed, and Griggs remembered that he was trapped in a citadel teeming with murderous monstrosities. A shudder running through him, Griggs realized that his Master's skin had become horribly discoloured, and that his flesh was in places encrusted with that unnerving crystal growth...

"Master, are you alright?" he asked.

Logan raised his catalyst, and a beam of incandescent light, tinged with blue, projected out onto the floor. A stream of icy magic surged across the ground, and Griggs cried in fear and alarm as shining spikes sprouted upwards, impaling him through the legs. In his pain and shock, Griggs fumbled his own catalyst, fingers grasping powerlessly as the thing rolled away across frosted carpet.

"Rather painful, isn't it?" said Logan, as Griggs goggled uncomprehendingly at him. "Fear not. In a few minutes the crystals will deaden the sensations, and you may delude yourself that you are not grievously wounded."

Logan's voice was ragged and cracked, and if Griggs were a little less frightened, and a little more focused, he may have surmised that his throat was lined with a crystalline coating. "Master, what is the meaning of this?"

Turning his back upon his stricken student, Logan brandished his catalyst, and a torrent of liquid crystal began pouring out, covering the floor and walls; he seemed intent on enveloping the entire theatre. As he worked, he called over his shoulder, raising his voice to be heard over the tinkling and smashing. "A thousand years, Griggs. A thousand years, Seath the Scaleless searched for the secret of immortality. Can you imagine how many trees he chopped down, to fill this place up with books? Thousands upon thousands of books, filled with theories and hypotheses and calculations and conjectures. It would take me decades to sift through the entire bulk of his work, Griggs! A century! I'd die of old age, trying to learn of immortality! But I have had a revelation, Griggs. Seath's research, which I have spent the last six weeks tirelessly studying? It is all _useless._"

"The crystals mean nothing. The Primordial Crystal? A sideshow, a distraction. Oh, don't misunderstand, from an academic point of view they are _fascinating_, but as it pertains to immortality, the crystals are irrelevant. Seath intended the Primordial Crystal to bestow him with eternal life, but, in the end, it was useful merely for protection..."

The pain was fading gradually, replaced with a disquieting chill. "Master, please..."

"_Seath achieved immortality, Griggs._ Oh, the irony of it is so _sublime_. For a thousand years, he formulated the most fathomlessly complex magical arts in order to create his crystals. He filled his collection of books with the most convoluted, complicated sorcery I have ever set eyes upon! But eventually, Griggs, he realized the truth."

Ceasing his work, Logan fixed his gaze upon Griggs' frightened, reluctant eyes, demanding his attention.

"Seath realized that complexity will not bring everlasting life," he whispered. "The secret of immortality is so _elegant_, Griggs. So simple."

Logan's blackened eyes came alive with wonder and delight, and for a moment, Griggs remembered all the times when his Master taught him of the wonders of sorcery.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

"_Oi! Take care below!"_

The Archives seemed to freeze still, briefly, and then a very large, very ornate, and very old oaken desk hurtled one hundred feet through the air, and landed squarely on the head of a golem.

Laurentius looked up. Far above, the mechanized stairways of the Archives rotated when one pulled a particular lever. Trusty Patches had manoeuvred the heaviest piece of furniture that he could find onto the steps, and shoved it off as the stairs passed over the spot where Laurentius was trapped.

The golems were stunned for an instant, but it was all that Laurentius needed. He leapt onto the bookcase, forcing himself skywards with all his strength, clambering up three shelves at a time. By the time he reached the top, the bookcase was violently shaking, the golems intent on pushing it over; Laurentius dashed across its width, vaulting over a railing as the improvised floor fell away, landing safely on a walkway on the other side.

Eventually, Laurentius managed to catch up with Patches. "You're the second person to save my life!" he said. "This land can't be that bad. Thank you, I will not forget my debt to you."

"Yes, I am jolly heroic, aren't I?" replied Patches, while thinking: _I'd probably enjoy it more if it wasn't __**forced**__, mind you..._

The pair decided on a direction, and set off to find the others.

()()()()()()()()()()

Quelana thought: _Mother always took special care to guard her daughters from deviants and degenerates. Seath, especially._

_Still. I'm a big girl, now._

She would have liked to have listened to Logan's rantings a little longer. They were...deranged, and not a little perverse, but also rather _informative_. Unfortunately, Logan had pinned his apprentice upon a bed of crystal spikes, and the centuries in Blighttown had not deadened her such that Quelana was willing to remain in the shadows while he struggled and groaned.

Besides, if Logan kept filling the theatre with his crystals, Quelana would soon find herself entombed.

She made the best use she could of the element of surprise. One moment, Logan was shambling about, spouting insanity, and the next, the ground beneath his feet was ablaze with belching fire. Logan screamed, and howled, and flailed around, Quelana's flames enveloping his entire body, devouring his flesh. He collapsed in the inferno, his spasms soon concealed by thick black smoke.

Turning her back, Quelana approached Logan's prone apprentice. Streams of blood trickled down the crystal spikes that held Griggs in place, and as she stood over him, he gawped at the menacing blackness of her cowl.

If it had been Sieglinde that found Griggs, she might have whispered words of comfort, soothingly brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. Had it been Laurentius, or Patches, or Solaire, they would have encouraged him to remain brave, and find the strength to persevere.

Quelana grabbed hold of him, and yanked him bodily off the spikes, Griggs crying out in pain as the tips left his flesh. She lowered him onto the floor, and knelt at his side.

She could see his eyes flicking about, could see him peering into the shadows of her hood. He swallowed, with difficulty. "Thank you," he rasped.

She inclined her head in the direction of Logan's smouldering corpse. "That was your mentor, was it not?" she asked, and Quelana idly pondered whether one day Nemeta would frustrate her so much that _she_ would try to murder her pupil, also...

Griggs nodded. "The poor fellow went Hollow..."

"No," said Quelana. "Hollows do not speak."

Like many teachers, Quelana preferred to allow students to come to answers and conclusions by themselves. But Griggs would never make sense of what she had told him, because at that moment a forest of crystal spears erupted beneath them. Griggs bore the brunt of it, twitching a moment, and then falling completely still. Quelana lurched away, shards of the detestable substance lodged in her legs.

A deformed parody of a human being crept from the smoke. Where Quelana's fires had burnt the skin away, there were now slatherings of crystal.

She should have made sure he was dead. It seemed the centuries as Blighttown's most powerful inhabitant had left Quelana somewhat complacent.

When the entity spoke, it was as though a putrid wind was blowing through ice-wreathed caves. "The progeny of the Witch," it said. "Surprising indeed that thou retaineth thine fair form, Daughter of Chaos. Didst all Izalith not fall to cataclysm? Dost thine mother and siblings not languisheth in thine profane flame?"

Hissing through her teeth, Quelana yanked a splinter of crystal from her thigh.

"Hmmm. Ordinarily, I taketh great pleasure in the fits and fevers of woman, though, alas, thine mother and sisters hath lost much of thine beauty..."

Screaming in rage, though she really wished not to, Quelana lobbed handful after handful of searing flame upon her foe.

The entity made little effort to resist. It didn't care. Let this irrelevant vessel burn to ashes.

()()()()()()()()()()

With Logan's death, the golems again descended to a state of passivity. They had certainly not been rendered harmless; if a soul ventured too close, they would trouble themselves to crush it to a pulp. Overall, however, the golems seemed content to stand around and do nothing, and occasionally collapse through floors.

Laurentius and Patches were able to reach Sieglinde, and together they found their way out of the Archives. They stood at the front entrance, waiting, hoping to see Griggs, or Ingward, or, yes, even Logan, emerge.

Instead, they watched in puzzlement as a figure swathed in ragged black robes, her face occluded by darkness, appeared before them. "Oh, splendid!" cried Patches, his voice treacly with scorn, and both Sieglinde and Laurentius looked at him strangely. "So glad to see you've safely returned, your highness!"

"I am Quelana," said the figure, pointedly ignoring Patches. "We have not been acquainted, but...I teach Nemeta in the ways of pyromancy."

"Nemeta didn't mention anything about pyromancy lessons," said Sieglinde, the doubt in her voice amplified by the echo of her helmet.

"No," said Laurentius, and from the way he breathed his words, it was obvious that he was coming to a realization. "But I have noticed that she wields the most remarkable flames..." Straightening himself, Laurentius attempted to appear as dignified as possible, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the bedraggled demeanour and abundant stubble. "My lady, may I ask: are we in the presence of the famed mother of pyromancy?"

Had Quelana's face been visible, they would have noted a raised eyebrow. "Are you not worried about your friends, pyromancer?" she asked.

"Er...oh, yes," replied Laurentius, deflating. "Yeah, I hope they've come to no harm."

"My lady, you came from the Archives," said Sieglinde. "Did you chance upon our companions?"

"Griggs and Ingward perished, I fear," she said, and Sieglinde and Laurentius visibly sagged.

"These two are in perfect health, though!" grinned Patches, clasping both knight and pyromancer by the shoulders. "Saved them myself, you should know!" he added, waggling an eyebrow.

"What about the old toad, Logan?" said Laurentius.

"The sorcerer Logan was responsible for this madness," said Quelana. "He was possessed, by Seath the Scaleless."

"_Possessed?"_

"Yes. Seath attained immortality through the means of obsession. The books in these archives are a chronicle of every fixation, every preoccupation that ever festered within the Duke's mind. His every desire, his every madness, his every depraved fantasy, all recorded on paper and stored in these shelves. When Logan began to study Seath's notes, he made himself vulnerable to this insanity. Seath's obsessions became Logan's obsessions, and, in time, Seath's personality overwhelmed Logan's mind."

"Where is Logan now?" asked Laurentius, his voice faint.

"Vanquished," said Quelana. "I defeated him with my pyromancy. But we are not finished yet. Seath's madness still inhabits the books that he left behind. We cannot allow them to remain, can we? If any mortal reads them, they will be susceptible to Seath's influence. The books must be destroyed!"

Quelana stepped forward, and stared into Laurentius' eyes. "Pyromancer," she said. "These Archives must be burned to the ground. Seath's books must not be allowed to fall into innocent hands. We must burn them to ashes, until not a single scrap remains. Can you assist me in this?"

()()()()()()()()()

With Laurentius' aid, Quelana cast great sheets of flame over the bookshelves of the Archives. Seath's legacy – a thousand years of research into magic and immortality, a monument to his insanity – was bathed in fire, slowing turning to ash.

Quelana and Laurentius retreated back outside, and, from a hilltop, the surviving Undead watched the conflagration. The fires climbed the walls of the Archives, a massive column of leaden smoke slowly rising over Anor Londo.

"Back to Firelink, I suppose," said Laurentius. "I _did_ come to Lordran to attune myself to the natural forces, I guess."

"It kind of takes away all the fun when you actually have a good reason for burning down a building, though, doesn't it?" said Patches.

Sieglinde was pensive. When at last she spoke, her voice seemed to be weighed with a grudging acceptance that more hardship was ahead. "We are not finished, yet," she said.

"How so?" said Laurentius.

"The books," she said. "They have not all been destroyed."

For a moment, the group stared at her in silence. Then, Laurentius' eyes widened, and he slapped his forehead. "Oh, heavens!" he gasped. "I completely forgot about that!"

"What?" said Quelana.

"The six-eyed sorcerers!" said Laurentius.

"We never could keep them out of the Archive," said Sieglinde. "There were so many secret passages, and hidden doors..."

"Logan said they were stealing books!" said Laurentius. "And he was right! They were stealing Seath's books because he was dead!"

"Hang on, hang on," said Patches, confused. "If someone reads one of them books, does that mean they get possessed by Seath?"

"We have to find them," said Laurentius. "We have to find where those sorcerers are, and burn the rest of those books to cinders!"

"But where could they be hiding?" said Sieglinde. "They could be anywhere in Lordran..."

"Not in Lordran," said Quelana. "Those books are gone, now."

All eyes fell upon her. "Gone?" said Patches. "Where?"

"Who knows?" she replied. "Astora? Vinheim? Catarina?"

Sieglinde gasped in dismay, and put a hand to her mouth; she was wearing her helmet, so the palm landed against metal. "Those books may be on their way to _Catarina_? Oh, I must warn them!"

"Yes," said Quelana, simply. "You must. You all must. Sieglinde, you must return to your home, and warn your king that a cult of sorcerers are smuggling a cursed book into his realm. If a king, or a prince, were to fall prey to Seath's will..."

Quelana banished the thought from her mind. "Laurentius, you must go, also. Return to the Great Swamp. Tell your people about Seath, and his madness, festering in mens' minds like a disease.

"But Laurentius is Undead!" said Sieglinde. "As soon as he sets foot in the Great Swamp, they will throw him back into an asylum! They will never listen to him!"

"Naw, naw," said Laurentius, dismissing her fears with a wave of his hand. "We have Nemeta, remember? Why, it'll take me a few months to reach the Great Swamp, by my reckoning. Should be time enough for Nemeta to link the Flames. Yeah, the Darksign should be gone, by the time I get back, and I'll be human again! As long as everything goes to plan...pity I won't be around to see the coronation..."

"Others need to be warned," said Quelana.

"Well, we could always try and find that Solaire fellow," said Laurentius. "He could set off to warn Astora. I think Andrei's a bit too old to be embarking on long journeys, to be honest...and Rickert of Vinheim is too much of a coward..."

Laurentius paused, and cleared his throat. "But...I will of course do my duty, and return to the Great Swamp. The thing is...my lady, I have never in my life seen fires as spectacular as yours. Please, tell me: what would it take to be accepted as your student? If I were to return to Lordran, when the task is done?"

"Do not waste your time searching for me, pyromancer," Quelana said, softly. "I am content with the student I have."

From behind came the sound of boots scuffling upon stone. Quelana turned around, and Nemeta gazed at her with entreating, questioning eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Chapter 10**

_Past midnight, a dozen heavily-armed men appeared at the gates of a fine house in the Odenburg district of Vinheim. They were confronted in the courtyard by the master of the household, a merchant who had made his fortune importing silks and spices from foreign lands; he strode down the steps from the front entrance, the darkened windows of the mansion filling with light behind him as the servants and inhabitants were roused by the commotion._

"_Swords and halberds?" said the merchant, a formidable-looking man of more than fifty years. "All for one young woman?"_

_The leader of the men stepped forward. "Apologies for our late intrusion, Master Wolfram. I am Belgar, of the Watch. We have reason to believe a Hollow is being harboured in this house."_

"_Mmm, my daughter," replied the merchant. "Not five days dead, and already ruffians have gathered to torment her!"_

"_No ruffians are we," said the guard captain. "We are the Watch, and we are entrusted with the protection of this city. All Hollows are to be rounded up, and conveyed to the asylum."_

"_Ten men to capture a young woman?" scoffed the merchant, scornful eyes flicking from face to face. "Or is it ten men here to line their pockets? Very well – I'm a wealthy man. How much to see the back of you?"_

"_I will assume for your sake that you are maddened with grief at the tragic death of your daughter, five days ago," said the guard captain, his voice becoming infused with a dangerous edge. "If you were sound of mind, however, and you were to offer a bribe to a city official...well, the Hollows can go to the asylum, and the corrupt can go to gaol."_

_The merchant snorted with disdain. Two other men – much younger, but just as brawny – appeared in the doorway. They made their way down the steps, and joined their father at his side. "You're not having our sister," said one._

"_Your sister is dead," said the guard captain. "We're here to capture the abomination that was left in her place."_

_The guards pushed their way inside. As they marched through the house, doors opened and shut, anxious faces peering warily through. Some of the servants gave the guards approving nods. They hated the Hollow. They hated her mouldy skin, they hated her white, desiccated eyes, they hated the way that when she spoke, it sounded as though rotten air was being expelled from a crypt. They wished to be rid of her._

_Strange, how the Watch had somehow known that an Undead was in hiding in this particular house..._

_Nemeta was in her bedroom. A Hollow in a white nightdress. The guards clamped a shackle over her neck, so that they could keep themselves at a safe distance by pulling taut two chains at either end. "I can walk, I can walk," she mewled in that ragged voice. "Please, allow me some dignity."_

_The guards marched her outside. From behind half-closed doors, the servants watched her go. They saw the pallor of her skin. They saw the blackened toes on her bare feet._

"_Keep your spirits up, Nemeta!" said one brother._

"_Yes, you're not defeated yet," said the other._

_Captain Belgar prepared to leave, but fingers clasped his elbow._

"_You should have accepted my bribe, guard captain," hissed the merchant. "Now I'll have to think of another way to spend that gold."_

()()()()()()()()()()()

"Nemeta!" said Sieglinde. "Heavens, you're almost Hollow!"

Indeed, Nemeta looked as though she had just spent a few days in a freshly-filled grave, and then been dragged back out of the earth. Her flesh was sunken and discoloured, her hair white and untidy, and her clothes mud-stained and dishevelled. She seemed confused, also – she wavered a few paces from the group, uncertain, and from the way her gaze wandered about, it appeared that she could not decide which was stranger: the fact that Quelana was standing amongst her Undead companions, or the fact that the Archives were being gobbled up by flames.

"You alright, friend?" said Laurentius.

Nemeta peered at Quelana, and then back at the inferno. "Why are the Archives on fire?" she asked, at last.

"Seath possessed Logan, and then he tried to kill us all," said Sieglinde, the squeaky matter-of-factness of her voice an odd counterbalance to the ghoulish horror of the event. "We were able to escape, but now we have to burn all of his books to make sure he doesn't possess anyone else again. But look, Nemeta! Your teacher is here!"

Quelana stepped forward, and Nemeta goggled at her in something approaching amazement. There was something almost _surreal_ about her, and then Nemeta realized that Quelana was so much a part of Blighttown, so intrinsic to its atmosphere and ambiance, that it simply seemed _unnatural_ for her to be anywhere else. It was _unsettling_ for Quelana, with her tattered black robes and shadowy cowl, to be amidst the gleaming spires of Anor Londo. It was _off-putting_ to see her anywhere but that dark swamp.

"It is rude to stare, my student," said Quelana, breaking the girl's trance.

"She slew Seath for us," said Sieglinde, always eager to be as helpful as possible.

"Mistress, I looked for you," said Nemeta, quite a bit more of a quaver in her voice than she intended. If her bottom lip were not decomposing, it may perhaps have wobbled. "I went down to Blighttown, to look for you. You weren't there. I thought something might have happened to you."

"Oh," replied Quelana. In spite of all her years of seclusion, in spite of all her feigned uncaring, a fragment of her mother's maternal instincts survived within Quelana, and now she realized that a _little_ tact was required. "Forgive me. I came to Anor Londo to find you. I never meant to cause you trouble. We can talk now, can't we?"

Nemeta nodded, pretending to understand. _Mistress came to Anor Londo to find me? Well, it's __about time she made the effort! Perhaps when she's had to slog her way through all those miles a few times, she'll be more appreciative of what an exceptional student she has. Still, leaving Blighttown is rather unusual for her. Whatever would prompt her to leave her home?_

For the time being, Nemeta pushed her doubts to the back of her mind. She noticed an unfamiliar face, at the back of the group. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Who am I?" Patches made a big show of looking around to ensure no one was standing behind him. "Only a slave, a prisoner, _a beast of burden._" He pointed a shaking finger at Quelana. "This enchantress has enslaved me!"

"_Enslaved_ you?" said Laurentius, baffled.

Nemeta gave Quelana a questioning look. "He's a brigand who preys on unsuspecting travellers," she explained.

"A _brigand_?" said Sieglinde, alarm rising in her voice. "We allowed him into the Archives!"

"You needn't worry," said Quelana. "I have him safely under my thumb."

Patches fell uncharacteristically silent as he felt Sieglinde and Laurentius' combined glare focus upon him.

"Is everyone safe?" asked Nemeta. "Where are Griggs and Ingward? Did they get out of the fire?"

Laurentius shook his head, sadly. "No. They perished in the struggle with Seath. And Logan is dead, of course."

Nemeta sagged. "Oh, _gods._.."

"And now we have to chase after the books that his sorcerers stole..." he added, rolling his eyes.

"What? Why?"

"Seath discovered a different way to achieve immortality," said Quelana. "Through his books. Do not let it bother you."

The Undead seemed to remember at once that Nemeta had her own responsibilities to consider. "Nemeta, did you battle Gravelord Nito?" asked Sieglinde.

"Y-yes," she said. A dazzling flame appeared in her palm, and Sieglinde and Laurentius gave an appreciative gasp. "I took his Lord Soul."

"Oh, nicely done!" said Laurentius. "Only one more to go!"

"But first, a nice long rest," said Sieglinde, cheerily. "If only we still had a nice place to stay..."

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you Hollow, Nemeta," said Laurentius.

"Yes, you look so strange!" said Sieglinde, with rather unnerving joviality. "I'm so used to seeing you as a pretty girl! Have you no sprites left, Nemeta?"

Laurentius laughed. "I always tried to tell Nemeta: sprites are the most _precious treasures_ in all of Lordran. We use them to preserve our humanity, and to strengthen the flames, but Nemeta, she just wants to look handsome! Whether she's trekking through a sewer, or fighting her way through a mausoleum, Nemeta always has to look her best, always has to look like a human. Friend, you must be the only soul I know that uses sprites as _cosmetics_!"

Quelana sprang forward, and took Nemeta by her arm, leading her away from the group. "I must speak with my student," she said. "Nemeta, come."

()()()()()()()()()()()

"You burned down my Archives," said Nemeta, sorely. "That's why you went to the trouble of coming all the way to Anor Londo, isn't it? Wouldn't want me sleeping too comfortably, would we? _No, my pupil, no carpet and cushions for you!_ Grass and muck, that is the pyromancer way!"

Quelana made sure that they were enough of a distance from the others, and then she took a deep breath. May as well plunge in.

"Nemeta, you have been deceived," she said. "You are not going to be the Queen of Sunlight."

Nemeta stared at her. Her face was too far decayed to express astonishment and incomprehension very well, but Quelana could guess her mood. "What?" she asked, simply.

"Kingseeker Frampt and Gwynevere have been misleading you all along. They intend you to link the Flame, that much is true...but when you do so, you will be bound to the fires, eternally. Gwynevere will inherit her father's mantle. That was always her plan. She will rule as the Queen of Sunlight, while you...you will sustain the Flame. You will prolong her Age of Fire."

Nemeta's cadaverous visage afforded her a degree of inscrutability. "You are mistaken," she said, her voice faint.

"I am not," said Quelana. "Gwynevere has woven quite the web of lies, but I was able to find the truth. The fate that she has in store for you...it is not what she promised you."

Nemeta's face remained an impassive mask, and Quelana realized how much she missed the girl's expressions; her exaggerated pouts, her skeptical eyebrows, her smug smirks, and all the other ways that her emotions found such ready expression. "But...I...perhaps I misunderstood her. Perhaps she didn't explain clearly enough. Perhaps, perhaps she will become Queen of Sunlight, and I will become the Sun, and..."

"Nemeta," said Quelana, gently. "If you link the flames, as Gwynevere intends, you will spend the rest of eternity _burning_."

Quelana held Nemeta's empty gaze, silently willing her to understand, to _accept._

And then Nemeta began to shake her head.

She began prodding her finger in front of Quelana's face. "No," she said. "No. _No, no, no, no, no._ No, you're lying. _You're lying!"_

"_Lying?"_ said Quelana, aghast.

Nemeta huffed and wheezed. "You're trying to trick me!" She began to shout and shriek, and as she ranted on, the dryness of her voice made her seem even less dignified. "You just want to save your mother, and your sisters! You know that I have to go down there to slay her, and take her soul! You'll do anything to fool me into staying away!"

In an instant, Quelana's recent journey flashed before her eyes. The Valley of Drakes, Firelink Shrine, Sen's Fortress; all the hardship and terror that she had endured to be here for her pupil.

"_Oh, you stupid girl!"_ she spat. Without thinking, Quelana reached up with one hand, and pushed her cowl away. At long last, Nemeta saw her Mistress' face.

Quelana was every bit as youthful as the day she first reached womanhood...and yet her eyes spoke of a thousand years of seclusion, and loneliness, and bitter regret.

The Witch of Izalith had been a beautiful woman, indeed.

"Listen to me, you blithering idiot! That Flame will devour you for _eternity_, do you understand? If you are wondering how it will feel, allow me to enlighten you. Immediately after you link the fires, the flames will begin to lick at your flesh, and you will instantly rue your decision. But it will be too late, by then. The fires will burn you, make your skin melt, make your blood boil in your veins, and there will be nothing you can do about it. You will cry, and scream, but not a soul will come to your aid. You'll cry for your mother – because you are such an infuriating child – but she will not answer. You'll cry for your father, your brothers, but they won't hear you. You'll cry for me, but darkness knows, I tried my best to save you! You'll be _trapped_, do you understand? However much you beg, you will not escape. It will never end. You will never die, and you will go mad with the pain. You will go insane. You will spend an entire era _deranged_, screaming in agony, clawing at your flesh while it burns endlessly, and the only hope you will ever have is that some soul, just as foolish and blundering as you, will come along to put you out of your misery."

For a moment, Quelana was reminded of the horrifying stories the Witch of Izalith told her little children to ensure they behaved.

Nemeta could not cry. Tears could not form in her eyes, snot could not run down her nose, and her throat and lungs were too dry to force her to sob. As she watched Nemeta tremble and fidget, Quelana realized that the girl's entire universe was crumbling about her. Her dreams of becoming the Queen of Sunlight – the dreams that had kept her sane throughout this Undead nightmare – were rotting away to nothing. Gwynevere – whom the girl had, much to Quelana's consternation, idolized – had deceived and betrayed her. The girl was brimming with fury and disappointment and unhappiness and desolation, and, worst of all, she was trapped in a decaying body which would not allow her to release it

Quelana sighed deeply, her arms hanging limply at her sides. "My mother and sisters are gone," she said. "They have been lost to me for a very long time. I don't have very much in the world. I just want my pupil to be well."

It took a while for Nemeta to speak next. "How did you learn this?" she said, quietly.

"There is a...an Everlasting Dragon, in Ash Lake. Yes, the Dragons that my mother and I fought in the ancient war, difficult though it may be to believe. Some of their kind survived. He...he knows that, even today, Lord Gwyn abides in agony at the heart of the First Flame. It seems the Dragon finds this fact so _amusing_, that it will tell anyone who happens to wander into conversation with it."

Gradually, the resentment and anger and hatred seemed to seep out of Nemeta, and she began to more and more resemble the lifeless husk that she actually was. "Princess Gwynevere lied to me," she stated.

"Yes."

"And Frampt."

"Yes."

Nemeta pondered this a moment. "I don't what to do," she said, finally. "What should I do?"

"Run away," said Quelana, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Leave Lordran, and never return."

"What will happen if I do that? What shall happen if I leave?"

Quelana shrugged. "Perhaps some other soul will come along. Perhaps someone will prove themselves as strong and brave as you, and become another Chosen Undead."

"And what if they don't? What if there isn't another?"

Quelana steeled herself. "Then the curse of the Darksign will continue. It will become worse, in fact, the weaker Gwyn becomes. The more time passes, the more Undead will rise, and the more the world will fill with Hollows. It won't be long before there will be more Hollows than human beings."

If Nemeta were fully human, at that moment her skin would have whitened, and her eyes widened in horror. Instead, she could only put a hand to her mouth in dismay. "How will I live with myself?"

Ah, now _there_ was a question Quelana could answer. "I lived with myself for a thousand years," she said. "It's simple. You'll see."

"But...so many Hollows...all the suffering...all those poor people, trapped in a nightmare...and it would all be because of _me_!"

Quelana could easily have lost the argument, at this point. She could easily have hemmed and hawed, and failed to say anything meaningful, failed to allay Nemeta's fears. She could have failed to convince her pupil to flee this forsaken land. Nemeta might have sacrificed herself to the First Flame, Quelana standing helplessly by as her student languished in the fire.

But Quelana knew exactly what to say.

Quelana knew exactly what Nemeta needed to hear, and how it needed to be said. She had been practising ever since she had left Blighttown.

Each step of the way, the insects had been following Nemeta through Lordran. From her den in Blighttown, Quelana had been watching as Lautrec betrayed Nemeta, and cut Anastacia's throat. Quelana had been watching as Seath snatched Rhea away, and indulged his sadistic whims upon her.

Quelana had been watching as Gwynevere and Frampt promised Nemeta the Sun.

Quelana drew near to Nemeta's face, demanding her gaze. "What do we know of the world, my pupil? Silver-tongued beguilers who flatter and seduce innocent people, and then stab them in the heart. Deviants, degenerates, perverts, who violate and dishonour women who are not strong enough to resist. Liars, and tricksters, and cheats, who prey on hopes and dreams."

Quelana studied Nemeta's face, and caught an almost imperceptible nod. Raising her hand, she gently stroked Nemeta's cheek, fingertips grazing putrefied flesh. When she spoke next, her voice was almost a whisper.

"The world doesn't deserve your sacrifice, my young student. It's not worth saving."

In her mind, Nemeta realized that she did not need excuses to leave forsake her duty.

No, the world did not deserve her; it never did.

It was too late.

Nemeta had seen too much. She had learned to much.

They should have seized her and thrown her upon the First Flame the moment she arrived in Lordran.

They never should have allowed her to meet Lautrec.

They never should have allowed her to witness Seath's atrocities.

They never should have allowed her to see the world for what it really was.

The Nemeta that first arrived in Lordran – a terrified Hollow in a white nightdress – believed that the world was worth saving.

The Nemeta that stood now in Anor Londo – the protégé of the mother of pyromancy – knew better.

Nemeta remained silent. Peace had settled upon her, and Quelana knew that she was victorious.

Some way off in the distance, Quelana and Nemeta could see that the towering flames of the Archives had attracted the attentions of the Lady of the Darkling, who was now in conversation with Laurentius, Sieglinde and Patches. "If I leave," said Nemeta, "what is to stop the gods from sending their servants after me? They could hunt me down, and take me back to Lordran in chains. They'll toss me on the fires."

"Never mind them," replied Quelana, dismissively. "I remained undiscovered in the swamp for a thousand years. They'll never find us."

Nemeta brightened ever so slightly, and Quelana's heart leapt and danced. "Mistress is coming with me?" she asked.

Quelana gave an amused snort. "Blighttown was my home for a millennium. If I'm willing to set even one foot outside for you, I'm willing to go _anywhere_, wouldn't you think? Anor Londo, Astora, Vinheim...they're all distant places, to me. You didn't imagine I would let you face this alone, did you?"

"And mark this, my pupil. Every time you begin to wonder whether you did the right thing, I will be there to knock some sense into you. Every time a hint of guilt or doubt enters your silly head, I will cast it out."

()()()()()()()()()()()()

The Undead rested for a few days, and then it was time for Laurentius and Sieglinde to leave, to embark on their journeys back to their homelands, and warn their countrymen of Seath's enduring malice.

"Goodbye, Nemeta," said Sieglinde. "Or perhaps I should address you as 'Your Highness'? Despite everything, I am looking forward to the future! If we never meet again, I just want you to know that I think you'll make a wonderful Queen of Sunlight!"

"Farewell, my friend," said Laurentius. "It was a pleasure knowing you. When you come into your kingdom...well, people probably won't believe me when I say that the Queen of Cinder once saved my life. But hey! Don't delay in linking the flame, now! If I'm still Undead when I return to the Great Swamp, they'll throw me in the asylum, and we wouldn't want that!"

"Goodbye, Quelana," said Sieglinde. "You saved my life in the Archives. I will never forget."

"It was an honour to meet you," said Laurentius, bowing respectfully. "I cannot express how much your pyromancy has enriched my life, and the lives of others. Thank you."

"You be good," warned Sieglinde.

"Any harm comes to those two women," said Laurentius, "and you'll have me to deal with, you scoundrel."

Nemeta watched as Laurentius and Sieglinde vanished into the mountains that separated Lordran from the rest of the world.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Quelana kept Nemeta confined to a house on the outskirts of Anor Londo. She kept her amused with pyromancy, and sent Patches out to hunt for food or luxuries.

Quelana did not allow Nemeta to confront Gwynevere, or Kingseeker Frampt.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Before Nemeta and Quelana departed Lordran, there was one thing to do.

The pair delved into the remotest, most inaccessible region of Sen's Fortress – keeping Patches safely in front, of course, lest they fall afoul of any dangerous traps. In an almost unreachable culvert, they left the three Lord Souls that Nemeta had gathered from all around the realm – the souls of Gravelord Nito, Seath the Scaleless, and the Four Kings of New Londo.

If indeed a new Chosen Undead came to claim his 'throne' in Anor Londo, perhaps he would have the good fortune to stumble across what Nemeta and Quelana had left behind.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta and Quelana knew that, if they tried to leave Lordran through the mountains, Gwynevere's agents could give easy chase.

No matter. Quelana knew another way.

Down the three went to Sen's Fortress, to Darkroot Basin, to the Valley of Drakes, all the way back to the bottom of the Blighttown swamp. There, Quelana stood in the middle of the great marsh, the poisonous goop slopping about at her heels. She gazed at the mosquitoes buzzing about. She gazed at the enormous pillars stretching through the air. She gazed at the ramshackle city clinging stubbornly to the walls above.

"It must feel strange, saying goodbye to your home after such a long bloody time," said Nemeta. She had regained her human beauty, and now quirked an ironic eyebrow at her Mistress.

"Hmmm," said Quelana. "Well, there will be plenty of time to wallow in nostalgia later. Come. Let us be on our way."

Before they left, Quelana allowed herself one final glance westwards, at the massive silken mound at the far end of the swamp. Perhaps Quelaan was still alive, Eingyi still pottering about at her arachnid feet. Perhaps she had perished abandoned and forgotten not long after Quelaag was slain.

Quelana turned away, and followed Nemeta and Patches into the Great Hollow.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Further downwards, to Ash Lake.

Quelana led Nemeta and Patches to a secluded bay, and there they found, of all things, a small wooden vessel, resting on the sand.

Patches threw a little tantrum, lamenting that the waters were full of unspeakable beasties and that they would all be devoured alive.

Quelana blandly asserted that she had avoided the attentions of the Blighttown predators for a millennium, and was confident that she could do the same on the lake.

Nemeta tartly suggested that if Patches so feared being eaten, he could at least row quickly.

His shoulders slumping in defeat, Patches pushed against the side of the boat, and began to slide the craft into the water.

"And so the reign of Queen Nemeta never comes to pass," said Quelana.

"And so Salaman will never be surpassed as your greatest accomplishment," replied Nemeta, ruefully.

Quelana snorted. "Are we prepared?"

Nemeta nodded, her lips pursing, her eyes hardening. "Yes. Let's go."

Nemeta and Quelana climbed aboard the vessel, and together they cast off from the shore, their servant pushing through the black water with his oars.

Nemeta and Patches peered apprehensively about. Patches did not shatter the eerie silence with inane babble. Nemeta did not spoil the surreal atmosphere with clever quips. The three drifted silently across the waves, the archtrees soaring high above, the waters stretching out in each direction as far as the eye could see. At the bow of the craft, Quelana's eyes were tightly shut, all her thought focused upon concealing their presence.

Quelana and her pupil left Lordran behind, and never returned.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Dark Souls and its characters are the intellectual property of From Software.**

**Looking back, I'm aware of tiny continuity errors. I'll fix them when I have time!**

**Chapter 11**

At long last, Nemeta, Quelana and Patches climbed their way out of the Archtree, and emerged into an unfamiliar landscape. Fortunately, night had fallen, and there was no sun in the sky to dazzle their eyes.

Quelana decided to rid herself of her bothersome servant. "Away with you," she said, inclining her head towards the vague outline of distant mountains. "May we never meet again. For your sake."

Patches, who had apparently resigned himself to a lifetime of servitude to this pitiless witch and her poison-tongued apprentice, could not keep the surprise from his face. "You're letting me go?" he said. "Do we forgive each other, then?"

"_We_ are rapidly losing what little of our patience survived the voyage across Ash Lake," said Nemeta, darkly. Patches needed no more encouragement. He took off, Nemeta glaring at his back as he raced across the plains away from them. "Are you sure that was a wise decision, Mistress?"

Quelana gave the mildest of shrugs. "The world belongs to the tricksters, now. Let the snakes claim their dominion."

()()()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta and Quelana picked their way through the countryside. Mountains and forests gave way to marshes and grassland, which in turn gave way to farms and meadows, and then towns and villages, and, eventually, the towering walls of a sprawling, bustling city.

Too late, Quelana realized that Nemeta was leading her into a trap.

Too late, Quelana understood that Nemeta intended to subject her to horrors and humiliations more frightful than anything she had encountered in Lordran.

"I am _not_ travelling around the world with Mistress looking like a _vagabond!"_ Nemeta's arms were crossed, her eyes narrowed, her lips firmly pouted; this was a woman who would brook _no argument_.

"I am veiled from the sight of mortal men," said Quelana. She tried her best to infuse her voice with a dangerous edge, and was rather disgruntled at how unimpressed Nemeta seemed. "And even if they _could_ see me, they would be far too distracted by the ghastly costumes _you_ wear to even _notice_ me!"

"It doesn't matter. _I_ can see you perfectly. We're not in Blighttown any longer, Mistress."

Quelana relented with a sigh. "Very well."

Rummaging about in her chest – that remarkable feat of magical engineering into which books, food, and entire armouries' worth of weapons and armour vanished – Nemeta produced a small blade, a bottle of oil, and a bar of soap, passing them to Quelana.

Quelana peered in confusion at the items in her hands. "What in heavens do I need _these_ for?"

Nemeta rolled her eyes. "We're among _civilization_, now, Mistress. There are certain..._rituals_ that simply _must_ be observed. Do not worry! Mark me, you'll grow to enjoy the feeling of smooth skin."

()()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta dragged Quelana to the merchants' quarter in the most affluent district of the city. First: the cordwainer. Quelana sat miserably in a chair as shoe after shoe was slipped onto her proffered foot, Nemeta pacing back and forth, gazing at the selection with an appraising eye.

Quelana, wistfully: "A thousand years, I lived, with the mud of the swamp beneath the soles of my feet."

"Yes," said Nemeta, cooly. "I imagine there was a lot of mutant excrement beneath the soles of your feet, also."

At last, they purchased some fifty pairs of boots, slippers, shoes and sandals – though Quelana could scarcely tell them all apart. As they left the establishment, Nemeta called happily over her shoulder: "Mistress, did you see how happy that shoemaker seemed, to have sold so many shoes in a single day?"

Behind her, Quelana tottered and staggered about, her heels an uncomfortable distance from the ground.

()()()()()()()()()()

Next, the dressmakers.

Nothing could prepare Quelana for the sheer, unbridled horror of _the corset_.

"_Release me!"_ she croaked, her skin white and her voice strangled. _"Undo these laces, or I shall find a blade and cut the thing off myself!"_

"Now that I think of it," said Nemeta, a thoughtful finger to her lips, "corsets really go against everything pyromancy stands for, don't they?"

For an entire afternoon, Quelana trudged about in front of a mirror, fitted out in elaborate creations of velvet, taffeta and silk. It quickly became clear that Nemeta was highly_, highly_ versed in the ways of fashion. Unfortunately, Quelana was not quite so knowledgeable, and so the hours began to melt into a frilly muddle of gowns, and collars, and hats, and laces, and ruffles, and sequins, and embroideries.

Nemeta purchased Quelana two dozen outfits; into the bottomless box they went. As they were leaving, Nemeta leaned into Quelana's ear, and whispered: "That was so embarrassing! I've spent so long in Lordran that I've fallen terribly behind on what's stylish! Those dressmakers were looking down their noses at me – they thought I was some country _simpleton!"_

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Evening was already descending when Nemeta and Quelana entered the marketplace. Nemeta quickly purchased several armfuls of cosmetics, and then the pair set about finding a place to spend the night.

Quelana would have been happy to sleep in an alleyway; Nemeta insisted upon the finest room at the most luxurious inn they could find. In a fireplace in the corner, they built a raging fire, and then Nemeta seated her Mistress in front of a mirror, and began arranging the cosmetics on the dresser before them.

Nemeta daubed kohl around Quelana's eyes. She powered her face, sprinkled perfume about her neck and shoulders, and wondered aloud whether her lips would be better red, or purple.

Quelana stared into the mirror. "I don't recognize my own reflection," she said.

Nemeta nodded. "Cosmetics can be so overwhelming," said Nemeta. "You have much to learn, my student."

Nemeta began to absent-mindedly run a brush through Quelana's hair. There was a faraway glaze in her eyes, as she wondered what styles she should attempt.

"Nemeta?" said Quelana, at last.

Nemeta emerged from her reverie, and looked down. "Mistress?"

Quelana gazed at her pupil's reflection. She said nothing, for a moment.

"Do you miss your dolls?" she said, at last.

()()()()()()()()()()()

"It could take us several months to get to Vinheim," said Nemeta. "The cellars beneath my father's house are very large. I'm sure he can hide us both down there with all the barrels of wine."

Quelana listened to this, and did not reply.

Quelana knew that Nemeta's parents had watched their daughter die of the plague. She knew that they had watched their child dragged from her home as an Undead, and exiled to the Asylum.

Quelana also knew that, if Nemeta returned to her family, she would watch as they were punished for the decision she had made, her refusal to link the Flame. Not even a woman as strong as Nemeta could protect her family from a world that was falling apart.

But Quelana kept her silence. As Nemeta had said, it would take them several months to reach Vinheim. Hopefully, Nemeta would come to some realizations upon the way.

()()()()()()()()()()()

After eight days of travelling, Quelana and Nemeta saw the vague shape of a farmhouse, standing a couple of miles off the road.

"Perhaps they can give us food and shelter," said Nemeta. She gave Quelana a rather severe look. "Aren't you glad I brought you shopping? If you were dressed in your old rags, they'd shut the door in our face."

They crossed the plain, passing over a wide expanse of grass. As they neared the place, they began to notice that the windows were shattered, and the front door wrenched off its frame, nothing but eerie darkness within. From the far end of the farm, from the shadows of a rickety wooden shed, came the sound of a cow grunting and moaning in pain.

"Hollows?" muttered Quelana, peering warily around the fields.

"Could be bandits," said Nemeta, a tad hopefully.

Inside the farmhouse, a family had been slaughtered. Their corpses were strewn across the floor, flies having long settled upon the flesh.

Back outside, Quelana undid the rope around the cow's neck. "Go! You are free! Shoo!"

The beast simply stood and lowed, mournful, helpless. Nemeta never had any experience with cows, and Quelana had hardly ever encountered such creatures, and so neither of them realized that the creature was languishing in agonizing pain because no one had been around to milk it for days.

"We will have to be on our guard," said Quelana, as they left the farmhouse behind. "These lands are unsafe."

()()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta and Quelana disappeared across the plain. They had not explored the farmhouse thoroughly enough. The farmer and his wife had hidden their youngest child, a girl of eight years, underneath the floorboards to protect her. When father was slain, his body fell upon the trapdoor, and his daughter was unable to shift his weight and free herself. She had perished of hunger several days later.

As Nemeta and Quelana investigated the building, they did not realize that a Hollow was staring up at them through the gaps in the floorboards. They departed, and the little Hollow remained in the darkness, silent, unmoving, gazing mindlessly into the blackness.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Naturally, Nemeta eventually accepted that she could not return to her family. She fell into a wretched melancholy, isolating herself in an inn for a week, desiring nothing but to sleep and eat, Quelana suddenly finding herself in the role of caretaker.

As some feeble consolation, Quelana suggested that they travel the world. "I spent a thousand years in Blighttown," she said. "I have an awful lot of inactivity to make up for."

In time, Quelana succeeded in rousing Nemeta from her black mood, and the pair set off on their journey. Together, they visited Astora, and Thorolund, and Carim, and Zena, and the ruins of ancient Balder.

Many, many years later, Quelana would grimly note that this was a very unwise decision.

What foolishness compels a woman who has damned the world, to travel the world as it comes asunder?

()()()()()()()()()()()()

After a year, the countryside was teeming with Hollows.

The learned men of the great human civilizations realized that the Darksign was appearing with far greater frequency. Where once one in ten human beings became Undead upon death, now one in nine, and then one in eight, and then one in seven.

_What could be causing this?_ The sorcerers and the clerics observed the Darksign spreading across the realms, and wondered.

The Undead became much too numerous for the domains of man to control. No longer was it practical to corral the Undead, and imprison them. Rapidly, the asylums became overcrowded, and then fell into chaos, overrun with Hollows. Many kingdoms quickly recognized that it was wiser to simply slaughter Undead as soon as their curse was revealed.

Hordes of revenants stalked the forests, and the valleys, and the mountains, and – most crucially of all – the roads. Merchants found need of hiring bands of mercenaries to protect their caravans as they trundled from realm to realm. The cities found themselves besieged by throngs of refugees from the countryside, farmers and fishermen and hunters and woodcutters fleeing their homes and seeking safety from the Hollows.

After five years, humanity retreated entirely behind the walls of their cities. The portcullises were lowered, the drawbridges raised, and the lands beyond were relinquished to the Undead.

()()()()()()()()()()()

"This is all my doing."

The words hung in the blackness, and Nemeta wished at once that she had kept silent.

She should have kept her thoughts to herself. She should have let her thoughts echo and rumble around within her skull, where they could bother no one else.

The mattress shifted beneath her, and then Quelana gathered Nemeta up in her arms, slinging a leg over her as though she needed to imprison her beneath as much weight as possible. In the dark, she sought out Nemeta's mouth, kissing her upon her eyelid, then her nose, then her lips.

"They have none to blame but themselves," Quelana said, drawing Nemeta's head underneath her chin and lazily stroking her hair. Her voice was groggy and lethargic, but Quelana had rehearsed these arguments so many times before. "How many thieves and charlatans would have gone unpunished, had you not condemned them? Think of all the liars, and the murderers, and the degenerates, and the traitors, all now brought to account, because of you."

()()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta wondered what became of Sieglinde and Laurentius.

Perhaps Sieglinde was safely nestled within one of the fortress cities of Catarina. How unhappy could circumstances be, really, if she was among the ranks of her onion-helmeted comrades?

Nemeta hoped that Laurentius had not fallen into the hands of the humans, and been dragged off to an asylum. Hopefully, he had eventually realized that the Sun would not be returning, and disappeared into the wilderness, to make the most of what little time the world had left.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Over two hundred years ago, Quelana had a pupil – Salaman, the Master Pyromancer. It was in large part due to Salaman that Quelana's pyromancy escaped Lordran, and spread to the various regions of the world.

Salaman, in turn, had students of his own. The most skilled and accomplished, Carmina, pioneered new directions for the art of pyromancy. Where, before, pyromancy largely involved the crafting, shaping, and manipulation of fire, Carmina discovered ways of harnessing the power of the pyromancer's own inner workings. Carmina could compel the blood in her veins to boil and rage, filling her with an unnatural strength. She could command the water in her flesh to flow over the surface of her skin and shield her from great heat.

One day, Nemeta decided that she must create her own pyromancies. She discovered that she was sick of cosmetics, and dresses, and dolls, and jewels, and porcelain, and cheesecakes, and stuffed animals.

Well, not _entirely_ sick...but she found them increasingly unfulfilling.

Nemeta realized that she was nothing more than Quelana's least significant student. That was Nemeta's great legacy – she would never be the Queen of Sunlight, the Lord of Cinder. She would never amount to anything more than the pupil of Quelana that was not named 'Salaman'.

Nemeta needed to contrive her own art of fire. Her own masterpiece. She needed to devise a pyromancy that would serve as a monument to her life, a pyromancy by which people would remember her.

Of course, in a century or so, there probably wouldn't be any people _left_ to remember her, but that was immaterial.

Salaman had been remembered for the Great Fireball. Carmina had been remembered for Iron Flesh. Nemeta would _briefly_ be remembered for...

...for what?

What sort of pyromancy could Nemeta create? What form would it take?

How could Nemeta _distinguish_ herself?

()()()()()()()()()()()()

After nine years, Seath returned.

Through the efforts of the six-eyed sorcerers, a cult had infested the realm of Carim. They recruited many acolytes, and corrupted them with their master's books – his pestilent, infectious _words_. Seath's madness took root in the minds of mortals, and now the treacherous creature was no longer a dragon, but an incorporeal, malevolent _will_, holding sway over vulnerable human souls.

Seath took leadership of the countless hundreds of thousands of Hollows plaguing the countryside. Now united under the rule of an immortal despot, the Hollows presented a far more dire threat to the strongholds of man.

Carim was overwhelmed by legions of ravenous Undead. The Hollows swarmed the cities, gorging themselves upon the souls of the helpless and innocent. Most horrifying of all: survivors spoke of dungeons and prisons in which victims, chained and tortured, were purposely tainted with Seath's insanity.

After twelve years, Catarina and Astora fell.

After thirteen years, Thorolund was overrun.

After fourteen years, Vinheim was destroyed.

()()()()()()()()()()()

"I am blessed to have met you," said Quelana. "I have never been so happy. I have never been so content. Thank you. Thank you dearly."

Nemeta was only vaguely aware of the bedsheets and blankets twisted about her.

She was only peripherally cognizant of Quelana's arms, wrapped tightly around her torso.

She was only distantly conscious of Quelana's mouth, planting kisses upon her cheek and earlobe.

Only dimly, did she acknowledge the hands that clasped her own, the fingers entwined with hers.

Only faintly, did she hear Quelana's voice, whispers and murmurs and more than a hint of pleading.

For Nemeta, there was nothing but endless, encompassing blackness.

"I cannot return to how things were, you know," Quelana said, her voice deathly low. "Despite everything, I imagined that I would _miss_ Blighttown. It was my home. But I _fear_ the place, now, truthfully. It comes to me in my dreams. I...I dream that I never left. That I am damned to remain there for eternity. That you never existed. That I never knew my beloved Nemeta."

Nemeta barely heard her. She was adrift in an empty void.

All around her, ghostly apparitions flickered to life, and vanished just as quickly.

Visions of Astora, aflame.

Thorolund and Catarina, in rubble.

Vinheim, in ruins.

In her delirium, Nemeta saw Laurentius, languishing in an Undead Asylum, trapped in a lightless place filled with Hollows.

She saw Sieglinde, who had watched her father perish, and now was forced to watch her homeland trodden to dust.

She saw her parents and brothers, and a multitude of deranged monsters massing at their door.

"Speak to me, my love," Quelana said. "I beseech you. I only wish for you to be happy. Anything at all."

()()()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta and Quelana could only wander the world for so long. Eventually, the wilds became too perilous, even for pyromancers as formidable as they.

They took refuge in a deserted castle at the edge of a forest. Several years earlier, one might have described the place as 'secluded' – of course, circumstances being as they were now, everywhere in the world was rather _solitary_. Surprisingly, they found the edifice in good repair – clearly, the inhabitants had fled for the illusory security of the cities. There had been little looting; Hollows cared for souls, not treasure.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Ensconced in her new home, Quelana's life became rather..._uneventful_. She slept until long after the sun had risen. She drank the wine that had been left in the cellar. She hunted rabbits and deer around the forest, making sure that the pantry was well-stocked. She sustained the enchantments that kept Nemeta and herself concealed from the attentions of Seath's Hollows – they found that they had few visitors.

By contrast, Nemeta had become utterly consumed with her little 'project'.

Late one morning, Quelana wandered into the large loft that Nemeta had appropriated for her experiments. It was in this place that Nemeta was attempting to craft her own unique pyromancy; at any moment, Quelana was expecting the entire castle to go up in flames.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Nemeta said, not looking up from her work.

"I lived for a thousand years in the Blighttown swamp," Quelana replied. "When _you_ have spent a millennium sleeping fitfully for four or five hours a day, then I will accept your cheek."

Quelana stood over Nemeta's shoulder, and peered down at the collection of objects on the table before her.

There was the White Sign Soapstone, given to her by that eccentric warrior, Solaire of Astora. _I wonder what became of him,_ Nemeta sometimes wondered. _Did he ever find his Sun?_ Fourteen years ago, the White Sign Soapstone had allowed Nemeta to travel to other worlds, worlds almost exactly similar to her own, but always with some significant differences.

It seemed useless, now.

There was the Yellow Sign Soapstone. In Lordran, this had allowed Nemeta to send messages to other realities.

There was the Book of the Guilty, whose pages seemed to fill with writing of its own accord, detailing the sins of individuals from other realms of existence. _I remember that man, Oswald of Carim,_ thought Nemeta. _I fought Gravelord Nito, and found the enormous pile of skeletons only slightly more unsettling..._

"How fares your research?" Quelana asked.

Nemeta gave a growl of frustration, and slumped in her chair. "_Slowly,_" she said. "The thing is...the thing is...all those years ago, when I was still in Lordran, sometimes _strange writing_ would appear on the ground, _invitations to another world_. And if I accepted the invitation, I would be pulled into that world. And I never even _questioned_ it! I never asked, _'why?'_! Why in Lordran did all these dimensions exist together? Why, in Lodran, did all of these, these _continuities,_ these _continuums,_ become tangled together?"

Quelana shrugged. "In Lordran, the flow of time was distorted..."

"But _why_?"

Quelana felt something she had not experienced in years: the sting of uselessness when a teacher is unable to answer her student's question. "What relevance does this have to _pyromancy_?" she asked.

Nemeta suddenly became conspicuously hesistant. "Well..." she said. "You see...there is a theory I am _ruminating_ upon..."

Nemeta took a deep breath, and then spoke: "In the Age of Ancients, the world was unformed, shrouded with mist. A land of grey crags, towering trees and ageless, everlasting dragons. Then came Fire, and with Fire came..."

Nemeta motioned for Quelana to complete the sentence. "Disparity," she said.

"Yes! Disparity! Cold and heat, life and death, light and dark...but also..._change_. There was no _time_ before the Fire came. Everything was still. Everything was lifeless. That is why the Everlasting Dragons were Everlasting – they were immortal because there was no such _thing_ as time, no beginning or end! And then the Flame began to burn, and the clocks began to tick..."

"What if the reason that time seemed so..._confused_...in Lordran was that the First Flame was beginning to die out? If the First Flame was the source of Disparity, the source of time, then perhaps when the Flame began to weaken, time began to...sicken? All these alternate timelines became jumbled and disordered because time itself was slowly dying."

"Well, it is something to consider," said Quelana, "but I still don't understand how this theory concerns _pyromancy_."

"Pyromancy is the art of invoking and manipulating fire," said Nemeta. "Fire creates time. If you can control the fire, then you can control..."

Nemeta's voice trailed off. Quelana goggled at her with a mixture of astonishment and incredulity, and Nemeta couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence.

()()()()()()()()()()()

After fifteen years, the Stone Dragons revealed themselves to the world.

Seath should never have revealed himself. He should have remained hidden in a dark, remote hole for the rest of eternity. He should have concealed himself so well that there was no chance of his presence ever being discovered.

But Seath did not hide. He had sent his Hollow legions to conquer humankind, and so it was that the Stone Dragons learned that the fiend that had betrayed and eradicated their revered ancestors was still alive.

The Stone Dragons descended upon Carim.

Seath was convinced that he was indestructible. By now, his derangement had poisoned tens of thousands of minds, droves of men, women and children fallen beneath his thrall. In order to destroy Seath, one would have to slaughter every living being in Carim, just to ensure that his demented obsessions did not survive. The Stone Dragons could butcher his Hollows all they wished; they could not harm him, not in any meaningful way.

It was only as the Stone Dragons set upon his domain that Seath realized his miscalculation.

Carim ceased to be. Mountains, plains, lakes, forests, ruined cities; all were devoured. Every living being in the realm – every mortal human languishing in dungeons or cowering in caves – met instant oblivion, Seath's madness vanishing with them.

Carim disappeared from the world, and in its place, an unmoving, impenetrable, forbidding expanse of grey fog.

By the warmth of the flames were the Dragons banished from their dominion.

By the return of the cold mists was their strength rediscovered.

()()()()()()()()()()()

"You are not to blame for any of this," Quelana hissed.

Nemeta was forcing her fist into her mouth; Quelana seized her by the wrist and lowered her arms to her side, then drew her into a tighter embrace.

"You are not to blame for the fact that the Flame is dying," she said. Nemeta snivelled and gagged and moaned and mewled into Quelana's shoulder, trails of snot working into the fabric of her dress. "You are not to blame for the fact that Seath was a tyrant. You are not to blame for the fact that the Dragons destroyed an entire people. You played no part in any of this, can't you see that?"

When it was safe to move, Quelana took Nemeta's face in her hands, and pressed a kiss against her forehead. Her left cheek. Her nose. Her right cheek. Her mouth. Her chin.

"I wish you could see yourself as I do," she said. "You are not a coward. You are not a traitor. You are not a disappointment. You are not a failure. You are a wonderful, clever, beautiful woman, and you give me such happiness. You are the most extraordinary gift I have ever received. Every day I give thanks that I have you."

Nemeta sniffed, and then succeeded in mustering a smile. "At least one person is enjoying the end of the world," she said.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Quelana and Nemeta realized that their pyromancy was beginning to wane.

The blasts of flame with which they battled their adversaries became less and less potent. It became increasingly difficult to shroud themselves from the awareness of the roving Hollows. Soon enough, they were forced to fortify their dwelling by physical means, assembling barricades at doors and sealing windows with bricks and cement.

"Well, it was to be expected," said Quelana. "The First Flame is dying a lingering death. It was only a matter of time before our pyromancy was affected."

()()()()()()()()()()()

The messages started to reappear.

They found them on the ground, and on the walls, and in the ceiling. Glowing inscriptions, sent from parallel worlds. Some of them took the form of warnings, informing Quelana and Nemeta of the presence of nearby hazards.

HOLLOW HIDING AROUND CORNER

BEWARE POWERFUL DEMON

HOLLOWS NUMEROUS IN THIS AREA

Other times, the people responsible for the messages seemed to want nothing more than to complain about their lots.

PLEASE HELP

TOO MANY

I COULD NOT SAVE THEM

"Well," said Quelana. "How do we explain this?"

"Time is unravelling," said Nemeta. "Well, it's been unravelling for about two decades, now, ever since the Flame began to go out. But our own little corner of the fabric is only now beginning to look threadbare."

()()()()()()()()()()()

After twenty years, the last human civilization fell.

Humanity was broken and scattered, now. Groups of nomads eked out a meagre existence in the wilderness, their numbers dwindling each year. Hollows staggered and stumbled mindlessly – relentlessly – across deserts and wastelands, in search of souls.

Gradually, the invitations began to materialize. Quelana and Nemeta crossed into other worlds, and aided strangers in battle against Hollows and Demons.

It was the only way they could get to see human faces, these days, other than their own.

()()()()()()()()()()()

At long last, Nemeta crafted her own pyromancy.

When Quelana awoke one morning, Nemeta summoned her into the loft. There, a fiery clock face floated in thin air, numbers smouldering with a blue glow, hands wreathed in orange flame. Nemeta stood to the side, smirking in triumph, her eyes alight. "I call it Temporal Distortion," she said.

Quelana stood and stared in amazement. "You've learned to manipulate time," she breathed.

Nemeta nodded, and then seemed somewhat resentful. "Of course, the only reason I was able to create this pyromancy is because time has become so disordered. I never would have accomplished anything if things were normal."

Quelana, long having learned that Nemeta needed every victory she could find, dismissed her misgivings. "This is outstanding! You...you've surpassed Salaman! You've surpassed me!"

"Yes," said Nemeta, grimacing. "Pity there isn't much left of humanity left to tell me how magnificent I am."

Quelana's face fell. "You have _me_, don't you?"

Nemeta dutifully brightened her expression. "Of course, my love, for which I am eternally grateful."

Attention returned to the blazing clock. "How precisely does it work?" asked Quelana.

"It can still time, so that it makes you feel as if you're moving through water," she said, "It can make you fast as a bolt of lightning. It can carry you into the future, or into the past."

"Fascinating."

Nemeta gazed at the clock, and as Quelana studied her expression, an extremely disquieting _emptiness_ seeped into her eyes. "Just think," she said. "With this pyromancy, I can travel all the way back to Lordran, in the past. I could jump on the flames. I could do what was expected of me. Everything that has happened to this world would be undone."

Quelana's smile faded, and her shoulders sagged. A image entered her mind: Nemeta, in her loft, in the dead of night, staring at her clock, trying to gather enough courage to sacrifice herself, waiting for Quelana to wake and persuade her otherwise.

Quelana sighed deeply. She closed the distance between them, and leaned in close; respectful, but insistent. "Nemeta," she said, her voice low. "I think I shall grow to hate this pyromancy, more than anything in this world, if something awful were to happen to you."

Nemeta stared for a moment at the floor, but then met Quelana's eyes. "You're the only person in the world I haven't hurt, my love," she muttered.

()()()()()()()()()()()

Slowly, the sun diminished.

Each time it appeared above the horizon and climbed the sky, it seemed somehow less glorious, less vibrant. The shadows lengthened, and then began to lose their definition. Plants shrivelled and died, the forest beyond the castle withering away. The light of day became increasingly feeble, until Nemeta and Quelana found themselves living in a constant, listless gloom.

A bitter chill enveloped the world. Snow drifted in on the winds, the entire landscape becoming enveloped in a shroud of ice. Still the Hollows marched, their rotten limbs freezing and breaking off.

The pyromancers did their best to remain warm, though their flames were now almost pitiably weak. They wrapped themselves up as well they could, the clothes that they had purchased all those years ago tattered and worn.

()()()()()()()()()

In the last few years, Quelana and Nemeta seldom spoke.

There wasn't much to talk about. One can have only so many conversations about snow, and snare traps, and firewood.

They smiled at one another in the mornings.

They held hands.

They sat together in silence, and neither of them felt the need to say anything at all.

()()()()()()()()()

Just as Nemeta had predicted the return of the Soul Signs, and the unravelling of time, so too had she anticipated Quelana's death.

Quelana had prolonged her life through her pyromancy. But the fires were dying out.

The flames that she brought to bear against Hollows were now weak and ineffective. Nemeta insisted that she accompany her each time she ventured into the forest. When they did go into the woods together, Nemeta soon found that Quelana could walk no more than a few miles before she needed to sit and rest.

The cold troubled Quelana greatly. During the day, she brooded in front of a roaring fire. At night, she slept beneath a mound of sheets and blankets.

The weight of more than a thousand years was pressing down upon her.

Quelana became increasingly frail, and Nemeta accepted that she would probably be caring for her for the rest of her days. Something of a surprise, then, when she awoke one afternoon to find that Quelana was gone.

The bed was empty. The main hall. The study. The kitchen. The cellars. The attics.

In the loft, on her desk, Nemeta discovered a letter.

_I may be a coward, but even a coward still has her pride._

_I will not be a burden, least of all to you. You will not be required to dress me. You will not be required to bathe me. I will not impose upon you to feed me, or tidy up my mess, or carry me, as one would a cripple._

_I am venturing into the forest. I expect I shan't get far. Please, do not follow me. You will allow me to live my final few days in dignity, won't you?_

_I shall do my best to conceal myself. When you are out wandering in the woods, I hope you do not stumble across me. I shall hide myself as well as I can._

_There is nothing more to say. _

_Remember me. _

()()()()()()()()()

The snows continued to fall. The Sun shrank in the sky, and the winter endured for years.

Great mounds of snow accumulated against the castle walls. Doors and windows became frosted and stuck. Sometimes, the snow towered nine or ten feet; taller than Nemeta.

_Apparently_, she thought, _the choice was whether I wished to burn in flames for eternity, or spend eternity entombed in ice._

"Apparently," she said, "the choice was whether I wished to burn in flames for eternity, or spend eternity entombed in ice."

()()()()()()()()()

After thirty years, one could stare at the Sun for hours, and never go blind.

Nemeta was fifty-three years old, now. There were blotches of red across her nose and cheeks, where blood vessels had burst. Crow's feet at the corner of her eyes. Her hair was almost entirely grey.

Occasionally, she studied herself in the mirror. She seemed as cold as the stones in the walls, as lifeless as the skeletal trees.

()()()()()()()()()

Quelana was gone, but Nemeta still had her flame. _Their_ flame.

It was her only companion, now.

Nemeta sat in the most comfortable chair in her study, and lost herself, peering for hours into the dancing fire.

Nemeta crawled into bed, enveloping herself in layer upon layer of blankets, and in the darkness within, there was nothing but that glowing spark.

She would never hear Quelana's voice again. She would never hold her close, never feel her touch...but she was with her, in some way.

When the guilt rose up and threatened to engulf her, Nemeta turned to her flame, and Quelana whispered comfortingly into her ear.

When Nemeta's mother and father, and her brothers, and Sieglinde, and Laurentius, and Andrei, and all the people of Carim, came to her in her nightmares, howling and screaming, Nemeta hurried to her flame, and Quelana gazed adoringly upon her.

When the loneliness became too much, Nemeta retreated to her flame, and Quelana hushed and shushed her, luring her to sleep.

()()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta knew that, with a simple decision, a simple act of will, she could undo all of this.

With her pyromancy of time, she could travel back to Lordran. She could return to the moment when she forsook the duty that had been foisted upon her. She could cast herself upon the fire. She could link the Flame. The Darksign would be banished. The Sun would not go out. The human race would be restored, and reclaim the world. All of her friends would remember her as a heroine.

Quelana would live again.

Nemeta summoned the clock. It hung in the air, its hands slowly turning.

Nemeta sat, and stared. _What was stopping her?_

"I am no longer a frightened, selfish, self-centred girl," she scoffed. "I'm a broken old woman."

The future had nothing in store for her. _Ha!_ When Quelana had originally revealed Gwynevere's deception to her, Nemeta had been so _indignant._ How dare Gwynevere make such demands of a young woman who has barely tasted life! There was so much she wanted to _do,_ so much she wanted to _experience!_

What experiences were left to Nemeta, now?

She had travelled the world...and watched it gobbled by madness.

She had created the most powerful pyromancy in all of human history...and none would even know.

She had shared a life with the woman she loved...and then lost her.

"Why not sacrifice myself?" she asked. "Why am I remaining here? Have I not had my fill of this?"

Naturally, no answer came.

Releasing an unsteady breath, Nemeta bowed her head. With a wave of her fingers, the clock disappeared. She would not be journeying to the past. She would be remain in this accursed castle a little longer.

Nemeta sat for several minutes, not moving at all. A trapped draft whistled and whined throughout the passages and halls of the castle. Outside, the winds rushed and howled over the forest and hills.

Nemeta stretched out her hand, and her flame took form in her palm.

She closed her eyes, and allowed the ghostly echoes of Quelana's voice to wash over her.

She was not a coward.

She was not a disappointment.

()()()()()()()()()

No Chosen Undead came to replace Nemeta.

Some managed to ring the Bells of Awakening. Many of them perished in Sen's Fortress. None succeeded in filling the Lordvessel.

Of course, as the years went on, and the Darksign propagated, fewer and fewer Undead made the pilgrimage to Lordran. When Astora, Thorolund and Vinheim were destroyed, the Way of White devolved from being the most powerful church on the continent, to no more than a fragile, scattered cult. Eventually, the snows came, and Lordran was enwreathed by the same veil of ice that was slowly enveloping the entire world.

()()()()()()()()()

For a thousand years, Gwyn understood nothing but the unpitying inferno of the Kiln.

For a thousand years, Gwyn understood nothing but the limitless hunger of the First Flame.

For a thousand years, Gwyn understood nothing but the fire sating itself upon his flesh.

For a thousand years, Gwyn understood nothing but the fire lapping at his soul.

When the end came, and Lord Gwyn's strength was almost spent, was he granted a moment of clarity?

Did he realize that he was about to die?

Did he comprehend that his spirit could sustain the Flame no longer?

Did he wonder as to the fate of the kingdom that he had left behind, so many years ago?

Was he allowed a fleeting vision of his queen, his children, to send him on his way?

Or was Gwyn nothing more than a husk, a mindless, charred shell? Incapable of curiosity, or concern, or reason, or fear, or desire, or love, or sadness? A spectre, left with nothing but blind, unknowing fury?

Gwyn died, surrounded by ashes. The final few embers of the Flame glowed a while, and then faded away.

The Age of Fire had ended.

()()()()()()()()()

Nemeta knew at once that something was wrong.

There was an emptiness inside her. A sickening, terrifying _absence_ where _something_ should rightfully be.

Her flame was gone. Quelana's flame.

A part of Quelana's spirit had been burning within Nemeta for decades. It was her comfort, her confidante, her strength, her solace, her drug.

Nothing but a void remained, now.

Nemeta did not realize that her eyes were bulging. Nemeta did not realize that she was breathing heavily, gulping at the air and forcing it out in frantic, frightened gasps.

"Heavens, no," she moaned. "Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no..."

Her palm was turned upwards. Her voice warped by sobs, she pleaded for the flame to come. This was nothing more than a mistake. She was merely imagining its loss. She had _misplaced_ it, somehow. Despite her years, she was still a silly, absent-minded girl.

"Quelana," she whimpered. "Quelana. Quelana. Quelana."

Outside, the snow billowed and flurried around the valley. The winds blew, and for a brief instant their clamour was joined by the screams of a lonely old woman.

()()()()()()()()()

The Sun gave one final burst of light, and then was no more.

All the colour fled from the world.

All existence was immersed in grey fog.

Time ground to a halt. Billions upon billions of flakes of snow hung suspended in the air.

Unspeaking, unmoving, the Stone Dragons sat upon their perches high above the land, and surveyed their realm.

()()()()()()()()()

The memories preyed on Nemeta.

Nemeta remembered Rhea. She could vividly recall the pall that had been placed over her corpse, and the impression of her face through the fabric. Nemeta had failed to protect her, failed to defend her from Seath's barbarous whims. She hadn't been able to spare a moment to care for her; she was too busy pursuing a destiny that she would eventually abandon.

Nemeta thought of Anastacia. Oh, what a sadistic prank Nemeta had played upon her! Poor, innocent Anastacia, wishing for death so dearly, and instead Nemeta gave her _this._

Nemeta remembered Laurentius, more of a gentlemen than all the sorcerers and clerics and nobles and scholars that disdained him combined. For her entire life, Nemeta had managed to delude herself that he had safely evaded capture and imprisonment in the Undead Asylum. But she could deceive herself no longer. He had ended his days among the Hollows; how could it be otherwise?

Nemeta's mind turned to Sieglinde. Oh, how she hoped Sieglinde had perished in Seath's initial conquest of Catarina. If Seath had managed to _capture_ her, if he had recognized her as one of the Undead that had originally vanquished him...perhaps he had invaded Catarina with the sole purpose of finding her...

Nemeta remembered Astora, and Carim, and Thorolund, and Zena. On her travels, she had visited cathedrals, and libraries, and art galleries, and palaces, and castles, and mausoleums, and marketplaces, and monuments, and universities. She had met so many different people, and she knew that all of these people had been murdered at the hands of soulless Hollows.

Nemeta thought of her mother, her father, and her brothers. Had it been Nemeta's purpose in this world to fill their days with as much misery as possible? How joyful their lives would be if she had never been born. How much anguish they would have been spared if they had never known her.

Nemeta thought of Quelana. Her teacher, her friend, her companion, her lover, her co-conspirator, her soothing flame in the dark.

Nemeta's eyes were eternally open, but she could see nothing. The fog would not allow her. She was Everlasting, now, a perfect, immutable statue that would endure forever. Nemeta peered into the murk, desperately searching.

_A spark of fire,_ she thought. _Just the tiniest spark of fire. All I need is a little flicker. Just a lick of flame, and I will have enough to fuel my pyromancy. Just a flash of fire, and I can travel back in time. I can return to Lordran. I can make the right choice. I can link the Flame._

_Quelana will come back to life._

_They all will._

_Sieglinde can go and live in wonderful castles with her knight friends._

_Laurentius can enjoy nature and worship his flames._

_Anastacia can have her death. She won't be trapped in this hell, with nothing but her thoughts to torment her._

_Mother and father will not be punished for the sin of having me._

_All those poor people will be spared._

_I'll do it. I'll do it in an instant._

_I'll throw myself into the fires. I'll burn for a thousand years – I do not mind. It's what I wish for. It's what I wish for! _

Nemeta's face was a stony, impassive mask. Empty eyes gazed ceaselessly into the mist, seeking out the slightest hint, the merest suggestion, of fire.

_Just a spark. All I need is a spark. I'll be happy to do it. This isn't what I want. This isn't what I want. _

_Just a spark._

_Just a spark._

**THE END**


End file.
